Way Back When (When We Were Young)
by CapGirlCanuck
Summary: David and Jonathan. Damon and Pythias. Steve and Bucky. From that fateful day in the schoolyard, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were friends. But as they faced the trials and triumphs of boyhood, in the heat, heartbreak, and hope of New York in the 20s and 30s, they became more than simply friends. They became brothers. Brothers... to the end of the line and beyond. (Brooklyn Bros)
1. Chapter 1

**So this was my first fic ever. (!) I owe so many people for inspiration and direction, especially Megan for kick-starting me. (Hola, girl. See you in July!) I love these guys to pieces, and writing historical fiction has always been a dream of mine. With this I got to put the two together! ****Thanks to the conflicting stories surrounding the pre-Captain America Steve Rogers I stick to the MOVIES ONLY in creating all my stories in this arc. Also gives me a much broader canvas to work with. Totally canon-compliant (I think!).**

**Any constructive criticism is welcomed, especially regarding historical accuracy. **

**Dedicated to my sis. To the end of the line, girl!**

**Prologue**

3 AM, July 3, 2017

_Yuty, Paraguay_

Steve Rogers fumbles with his key, finally getting the motel room door to open. The cool of an air conditioned interior rolls over him. He enters the dark room, and softly shuts the door behind him, before pausing to listen. He can hear snores coming from the bedroom; Sam is asleep.

With a sigh, he makes his way to the couch without turning on the light. He flops down, reaching for a water bottle on the coffee table, gulps half of it down. He hopes Sam doesn't know about these little excursions. The combination of constant hiding, brooding over Tony Stark and the rest of his Avengers 'family', and wondering why Bucky hasn't Skyped him in two weeks eliminates any possibility of sleep. At least, until he's worn himself out physically. But being a super soldier, the only safe time to run is at night.

He spots the glow of his phone, tucked half under his pillow; he always leaves it behind when he's running. Untying his shoes, he kicks them under the table, grabs his phone, and stretches out on the couch; the sweat has dried, and he's happy with sleeping in his clothes.

There is a voicemail waiting for him from Shuri, King T'Challa's little sister, the technological genius who has been working with Buck.

Steve catches his breath and chews on his bottom lip, instantly worried. A setback? Another breakdown? Why isn't Bucky contacting him personally?

Swallowing hard, he stabs at the screen until the message begins playing.

"Captain Rogers, I hope you get this message in time. Please come to Wakanda as soon as possible. You may land at Birnin Zana. We will be waiting. Do not worry, nothing bad has happened. We hope to see you soon."

Steve sits for a long moment in silence before responding to his phone's prompts. He turns it off and lies, staring into the darkness. _Get this message in time… come as soon as possible… do not worry…_

He huffs out a sigh. It's easier to fight Iron Man than stop worrying, especially when it comes to Bucky Barnes. The spectre of losing the only brother he ever had, _again,_ has been unshakable for the last year or so.

_Come as soon as possible…_

With a jolt, he is on his feet, reaching for the duffle bag tucked between the couch and armchair. Rapidly, he strips the blankets off the couch, stuffing them into his bag on top of his clothes. He tosses his phone in, before zipping it shut.

Now he pauses, staring at Sam's door, and thinking of Wanda and Nat in the next room over. He realizes something. This time, he wants to be alone. Whatever surprises are in store in Wakanda, it is his business, and his only. Switching on the light over the kitchen sink, he then grabs some paper out of a drawer. Scribbles a note: _Taking the Quin for 3/4 days. Sorry, got business to take care of in Wakanda. Call if you need me –Steve_

Wakanda will tell them it's about Bucky. They'll understand. He lays the note on the coffee table, grabs his keys, throws the bag over his shoulder. The Quinjet is hidden in the woods about a half-hour walk from the outskirts of town and he is suddenly itching to be gone.

Stepping outside, back into the blanket of humid air, he locks the door behind him, and pockets the keys. Striding across the parking lot, he looks up to see an almost full moon breaking out from the clouds. He is suddenly reminded of something T'Challa said to him, one time when his face must have given away how much he hated to leave Bucky. _'It is still the same sun and moon, wherever you go.'_

"Please," he whispers. "Please let Buck be alright." A thought hits him: why is he only thinking about what could be wrong? Perhaps… perhaps something is right.

Hope blossoms in his chest, like the feeling he'd get from Buck's hot chocolate on a wintery day, home from classes. Two days a week his art classes ran later than Bucky's work...

Steve sucks in a deep breath, and blinks, trying to hold back the memories. But why should he? He has a long walk and a heckuva long flight to remember anything he wants to.

Then he is humming, his mother's favorite song, _dum-da-da-da-da-da_, what's it called again? _…but when Irish eyes are smiling…_ Aha. She was always humming it in the mornings, especially on the way to dropping him off at school…


	2. Chapter 2

**We're Going to Be Friends**

September 1926

Steve stood awkwardly in the street, peering through the school gates at a teeming crowd of children. He would have bet his freshly blacked boots that he was the only eight-year-old coming here for the first time. Of course it wasn't his fault he had been sick so often that he missed the first two years of school.

The bells chimed from a nearby church and his mother started. "Sure, I'm going to be terribly late." She bent to kiss his cheek, and brush the blond hair off his forehead. "Sorry I can't take you in, but I must run. You'll be alright; I told the teacher to keep an eye out for you. Love you, laddie boy."

"Love you too, Mama," he whispered, kissing her back.

She gave him a gentle push in the direction of the big front doors and then she was gone, dashing across a busy street on her way to work at the hospital. Steve watched until she vanished around the corner, her coat a bright blue flash against the red brick buildings. He sucked in a deep breath, turned, and marched up the walkway.

Unfortunately he was so focused on the front doors that he failed to notice a foot stuck out in his path. He tumbled down on his face—thankfully on the grass not the pavement—losing his grip on his books and lunch pail in the process.

"Hey, Shrimp," chirped a voice. "Look where you're going." The words were followed by a chorus of laughter.

Gingerly Steve rolled over, spat out some grass and grit, and stared up at a big, rather ugly boy, whose eyes narrowed into a glare. "You'd better watch out, baby boy."

"I am not a baby," Steve said, scrambling to his feet. "And I did not run into you. You tripped me."

The bully's face was turning a deep red and as Steve finished speaking he stepped forward, rage distorting his features. "You little piece of horse–"

"Watch your language," Steve blurted, then instinctively threw his fists up to ward off the blow.

The first one knocked him sprawling and he gasped, sheilding his face with one hand. His mother would not be pleased of he got blood on his new shirt. He clenched his jaw, waiting, and trying to find the strength to get up again.

But no more blows fell. The bell was ringing, and another boy was brushing the bully aside. The bully turned to face this new disturbance, but someone hollered, "Linwood!" and he turned away.

"Well, that's that," said the boy who had just saved Steve's neck. "And I didn't even get to take a swing. Here, grab my hand."

Steve let himself be pulled up, and caught his breath.

"Gee whiz, wish I had your guts," the other boy went on. "Talking back to Mr. high-and-mighty Georgie-porgy. You must be new here. You'll have to watch out now. If you ever need a hand just yell." He stuck out his hand. "You can call me Bucky, everyone does. Well, 'cept for my dad; he calls me JB, when he's in a good mood anyway. And the twins of course. They're just babies– But never mind what they call me. My mother calls me James, of course."

Hesitantly, Steve shook Bucky's hand. "Steve," he said, suddenly shy.

Bucky was almost a head taller than Steve, with a strong grip. His dark hair flopped over his forehead, and at first glance he looked quite serious. But Steve could see the mischief dancing in his eyes that matched his bright grin.

"What grade are you in?" Bucky asked, seizing his coat sleeve and towing him up the steps.

"Three," Steve said quietly.

Bucky stopped dead and stared at him. Steve knew what was coming: the ridicule and taunts about how small he was, how skinny. He steeled himself, lifting his chin just a tad.

"Seriously? That's great. Same as me, though I'm in fourth; third and fourth are in one room. I can show you all the ropes. Maybe Teacher will even let you sit with me. Come on."

Dizzy with surprise, Steve let himself be dragged along. By the time they reached their classroom, Steve was feeling happier than he had in a while. Maybe he would be able to fit in here.

And maybe, just maybe, he had made a friend.

February 1927

"What'cha doing?"

Steve did not look up, but he shifted his hand enough for Bucky to get a glimpse of his paper. He grinned inside with satisfaction, hearing Buck's soft, "Ohh!"

Instead of math problems, Steve's notebook contained a large cartoon sketch of Mr. Delbert Parsons, with his mustache sticking out a foot on each side of his head and legs so short he could rest his chin on his desk.

Back before Christmas, Miss Simpson had left for Boston to take care of her ailing sister. Mr. Parsons had taken over the grade 3/4 classroom. As Bucky put it, he was 'all bark and no bite'. But still, his tirades over someone calling Benjamin Franklin a former president, or mixing nouns and adjectives, were impressive, with the way his mustache would bristle and he would sometimes even jump up and down. Especially over the Benjamin Franklin thing.

Quickly Steve added a little bubble above Parsons's head, to make him say something, then paused, sucking on his pencil and wondering what it should be.

"Let me," Bucky whispered. He grabbed for the notebook, and a moment's scuffle ensued. Thankfully their teacher was paying no attention.

Bucky won, though Steve hissed indignantly, "Fine. I'll see you outside. Later."

Bucky merely grinned and scribbled on the drawing, before presenting it with a flourish.

_I tell you, Mr. Franklin WAS the 1__st__ president of the United States. Why, I rode his kite, and saw the lightning._

Steve choked, and had to stuff his fist in his mouth to hold back the laughter.

"Genius, huh." Bucky looked entirely too pleased with himself. "I'm keeping this, thank you." He tucked the paper into his own notebook.

Steve shrugged, and started another picture, this time a good one of Bucky leading the charge in yesterday's snowball fight. He had finished his math problems in no time, and drawing was more fun. He knew his father had been a good artist; one of his sketches was framed on the wall of Steve's mother's bedroom.

He did not think of the Parsons cartoon again, until the next day.

Mr. Parsons was not in the classroom when the children came in. Steve slid in after Bucky, stuffing his books into his desk, and letting the lid drop with just a little more energy than usual. He heard the teacher come in and glanced up.

Mr. Parsons glared back. "Steven Rogers?" he rapped out, his mustache practically shooting off of his face.

Steve shot to his feet, heart hammering. "Y-yes, sir?"

"Did you draw this?" He flashed a piece of paper, just enough for Steve to glimpse the cartoon he had made yesterday. "It has your name on it," he added.

"Applesauce!" Bucky hissed at Steve's elbow.

Steve's knees were actually shaking. "Yes, sir," he choked out. What sentence would a crime like this earn him? A whipping? A suspension?

Bucky jumped up beside him. "It was my idea, sir."

Mr. Parsons's eyebrows seemed to go so high they disappeared. "I don't see your signature on this, Master Barnes."

"I know, but- but I egged him on, sir. And I- I- I put it in your desk, sir." The last words were barely audible, as Bucky's courage seemed to fade. The entire class held its breath, waiting for the explosion that was sure to follow.

Steve's hands clenched into fists, the combination of terror over his punishment, and fury at Bucky for getting him into this mess, sending adrenaline surging through his body.

"Principal's office. Both of you." Mr. Parsons sounded like he was biting the tail off each word. "Miss Jefferies?"

A fourth-grade girl sprang to her feet. "Yes, sir?"

"Start singing the anthem. That should keep you occupied until I return."

Marching down the hall behind Mr. Parsons—not that Mr. Parsons _could_ march, his was more of a trot—Steve leaned in to whisper in Bucky's ear, "I hate you! Don't ever do anything like that again, or you'll regret it!"

"All right." Mr. Parsons stopped so abruptly they almost ran into him. He turned and both boys gulped. But what was this? Was he… smiling?!

"Master Rogers, next time you engage in such capers, do _not_ sign your name on it and make me go to the trouble of punishing someone. Or at least the appearance of punishing someone. Your penalty will be art lessons three days a week with Miss Hastings. As for you, Barnes," he rapped his knuckles on Bucky's head, "for misleading a child younger than yourself, you shall stay in from recess on those days and keep your friend company. Writing lines. How about 200 a day? Good? Good."

There was a moment's silence as the two boys gaped at their teacher. He gave a sudden guffaw. "I would love to see a sketch of your faces. Ha, ha!" He caught himself, and frowned at them. "Now back to class, both of you."

Steve did not wring Bucky's neck that day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Cottages and Christmas**

July 1927

The day after school let out, Steve was packing his bag, and waving goodbye to his mother from the back seat of the Barnes' car. Bucky had invited him to spend the month with his family on vacation in Maine. Maine! Steve had never been farther from home than Long Island.

And it was a house on a _lake._ Which meant swimming every day, Bucky said, and his father would rent a motorboat and they would go fishing and climb trees– Steve's mother had frowned at the climbing trees part. But after making him promise several times over that he would _not_ climb trees, or do anything else very strenuous like swim out of his depth, and be _very_ careful not to catch a cold, she had relented.

Lying in bed that first night, too excited to sleep, Steve whispered to Bucky, "Is your dad rich?" Bucky had to stuff a corner of the sheet into his mouth to keep from yelling with laughter.

Steve just stared at him. "Most of the people on our street don't have cars."

That sobered Buck up plenty quick, though Steve could still see his grin, gleaming white in the dark. It was warm enough that they had the window open a bit, and Steve could hear the waves _swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_ on the shore.

"No, we're not rich," Bucky said, sitting up and pushing the blankets aside. He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees. "Our tin can ain't exactly a Cadillac. We don't have any more money than most people, I think."

"We're just poor."

"I didn't say that," Bucky protested.

"But it's true," Steve said, sitting up as well. "Sometimes I hear Mama crying at night when she thinks I'm asleep and she's asking God to not let us starve."

Bucky was silent for a long moment. "Did you ever?"

"Ever what?"

"Starve."

"No."

"Well, then." Buck sounded triumphant. "You can't be poor, because poor people starve. 'sides, your ma makes the best gingerbread in the universe. You can always live on that, if all else fails."

Steve suddenly cocked his head. A wild, wavering cry echoed across the lake. He shivered.

"That's the loons," Bucky said, suddenly yawning. "These crazy birds."

They fell asleep with the calling of the loons, and Steve dreamt he was eating gingerbread and dancing with crazy birds.

On Monday morning Steve was shaken awake by Bucky, grinning like an idiot. "Happy Birthdaaay!" he whispered, bouncing quietly.

"Ughumm," Steve groaned, rolling over and swatting at his friend.

"How about we wake everyone up at once?"

"How in the world would we?" Steve dug his knuckles in his eyes, and stretched.

"We'll jump in the lake!"

Steve stared up at his friend, dumbfounded. Bucky's face was alive with mischief and excitement, that daredevil look.

"Come on!" Bucky grabbed Steve's arm, dragging him bodily out of bed.

"But I'm in my pajamas," Steve started to protest.

"Wear 'em."

Then they were out in the hall, tip-toeing past the girls' room to the stairs, which fortunately did not creak, and moving in a barefooted rush to the back door. Outside the grass sparkled with dew, the morning mist was rising off the lake, the first rays of sun were rose-gold spilling across the landscape.

Steve stood, knocked breathless by the sheer beauty of it. In all his life, he had never imagined…

And then Buck had his arm again, towing him across the lawn toward the water. He blinked, sucking in the deepest breath he'd had in… ever.

"Ready?" Bucky said, gesturing to the wooden dock that stretched out into the water. Steve knew instantly that he would be out of his depth. And he didn't actually know how to swim. But Buck did. And…

He grinned at Buck. "Definitely." Almost in tandem they stripped off their shirts, rolled up their pant legs.

"Go!" Bucky yelled, the sound a gunshot across the lake.

They were off, running pell-mell, their feet thundering on the wooden planks, whooping suddenly, loud enough to wake the dead. There was one step left and Steve instinctively grabbed Bucky's hand, fear meeting—but not conquering—the exhilaration. Then they launched into freefall, opposite hands coming up to grab their noses, before the shrieks were stifled in the overwhelming _SPLASH._

They came up gasping, Steve feeling like he'd been dumped in the Arctic. Buck was yelling and splashing, shaking off Steve's hand. Steve went under again, only for a moment, but he was having trouble catching his breath. A hand gripped his arm, towing him through the water, and then he stumbled, finding solid ground beneath his feet. He choked, spluttered for a moment, found his breath.

"Hey. You 'kay?" Buck asked.

"Yeah–" A wave of water caught him in the side of the head.

Despite his fears, he did not have an asthma attack that day, and there were presents waiting at his place at the breakfast table. Two crisp dollar bills—one each from Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, a big bouquet of wildflowers from Rebecca (and the twins), a swell penknife from Bucky—with _Steve_ scratched on the handle, and from his mother a set of six of the finest drawing pencils he had ever seen, along with a thick, thick sketchbook.

"You're a rich man now," Buck observed, drowning his cereal in milk, and ignoring his mother's scolding.

Steve glanced up to grin at his friend. "And how!" he blurted.

Christmas 1928

Steve held his breath, pressing against Bucky's side. He could sense that Bucky was getting dangerously close to exploding; probably into laughter.

With agonizing slowness, the slippered feet of Aunt Margarita shuffled past. She paused once, to dim the lights even further, before making her way to the stairs and, just as slowly, ascending. Not until they heard the soft click of her bedroom door shutting did the two boys finally let out a long breath: _Whoosh._

"Gee whiz," Buck said, as they crawled out from under the dining table. "I thought the old bat would never go to bed."

A giggle exploded out of Steve, before he clapped his hand over his mouth. "Bucky!" he gasped.

"Well, that's what Dad calls her." Bucky did a little jig in his stocking feet, stopping as the clock chimed the half-hour. "Gosh, it's only ten-thirty. Santa Claus isn't coming 'til _midnight._" He winked furiously at Steve as he said _Santa Claus_.

"And just for calling your aunt names, he'll leave you nothing but a hickory switch."

"Ish kabibble," Bucky said rudely. "Let's go find some ginger bread. I doubt even Cousin Hattie ate it all, though she eats enough for an elephant."

Steve scampered after his friend, barely stifling another giggle. It was probably just the intrigue surrounding staying up all night that made Bucky sound so reckless. Though he was right about his cousin Hattie Barnes; she did eat far too much.

In the kitchen Bucky already had his hands on the bread box. "Ha," he said, triumphantly, peering in. Steve was only half paying attention. It didn't matter how many times he saw it, the Barnes' kitchen still amazed him. Everything: the stove, the ice-box, the cupboards, the table, was twice as big as the Rogers'. And the food… He and his mother had enough, but for a growing ten-year-old boy nothing is ever really enough.

"Stevie."

He started, and took the (large) piece of gingerbread Bucky was holding out to him.

"Let's go scope out the living room," Bucky suggested. "Find a good hiding spot."

Steve and his mother had been invited for Christmas last year, but Steve had come down with a terrible cold. That cold had earned him an extra week of holidays, but he'd still regretted it.

The Barnes' living room was resplendent with cedar boughs, sprigs of holly, and, most stunning of all, the colored lights on the tree. The light danced off the glittery papers and bows piled underneath.

He wiggled his bare toes in the carpet, his stockings still not dry after the evenings' outdoor antics. The dozen or so cousins, which for one glorious evening included Steve, had gone out to play in the snow. In the middle of a spirited snowball fight, Bucky's two biggest cousins had ambushed him, knocked him into a snow bank and made off with his shoes. Bucky had been furious and personally seen to washing their faces. Steve had made Buck promise not to tell any parents, he didn't want his mother worrying about him catching a cold _now_.

"Behind the armchair in the corner," Bucky was saying. "I think we'll both fit." Their plan was to hide and scare whichever of the adults came down to fill the stockings.

Steve glanced over at the fireplace, where the ashes were banked up over the coals, and stopped. "Uh, oh," he said, mouth full of gingerbread, "I think we're too late."

Staring at the full stockings hanging in a row, Bucky's mouth opened and closed several times before he blurted, "Applesauce! Rats! Phooey!"

Steve barely suppressed a snicker at Bucky's indignation. "Probably what Aunt Margarita was doing."

"Applesauce!" Bucky said again. Then suddenly he whirled, a devious light in his eyes. "Let's open them now."

Steve looked at him, startled. "Our presents?"

"No, the stockings!"

"But… it's not Christmas yet."

"Oh, come on," Bucky groaned, throwing his hands in the air. "Don't be such a wet blanket."

"Wait. Where is my stocking anyway?" Steve moved to run his hand along the line of fat bundles, searching for his worn little sock, the one his mother had made for his father when they were married, with _Joseph_ embroidered on it. Now it had _Steven_ on it too.

"Here," Bucky said, shoving one of the big, fat red ones at him. "Next to mine."

"But that isn't–" Then Steve caught sight of the faded red yarn poking out and stared. "You mean this is… all mine?"

"Yup." Bucky grinned and dragged him over to the tree. "Let's dig in."

They fell asleep there, slumped over on each other, surrounded by candy wrappers, oranges, and small trinkets. Only to be woken Christmas morning by indignant squeals from Bucky's sisters and the rest of the small fry, a good-natured shaking from the older cousins, and the laughter of the adults.

**Notes:**

**Words from the day:**  
**Ish kabibble: a common retort, in the sense of "What do I care?"**

**So, some folks might not agree with how I portray the differences between the boys' families, but remember I'm just telling the story the way I see it.**  
**Also, these are snapshots, memories, without full background. Seen through a kid's eyes.**  
**Please keep any criticism constructive.**  
**Hope you enjoyed!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Amusements**

March 1929

"Come on, Stevie, lad. Drink it all now."

Like all medicines, it tasted horrible, but he did as his mother commanded.

"There." She patted him on the back and took the cup, slipping something else into his hand. He valiantly held back the terrific urge to spit, gulped instead, and looked down.

His head shot back up, but his mother had already left the bedroom. He stared back at the hunk of gingerbread in his palm. "Me mam's the best," he murmured hoarsely.

A cough rose in his chest. He stifled it and sat back, nibbling on his gingerbread.

"Hey," said a loud, cheerful voice. "Got any for me?"

Startled, Steve looked up to see Bucky standing in the doorway. His face was red from the cold, and Steve noticed his feet were bare.

"Socks got soaked, thanks to the bloody slush out there," Bucky said, coming across to plump down on the end of the bed.

"You watch your language, young man," Sarah Rogers scolded, coming in drying her hands on her apron.

"Can I have–" Bucky started

"May I."

"May I have some gingerbread, Mrs. Rogers?"

She laughed and flicked him with her apron. Steve had a sudden surge of happiness at seeing his mother smile; Bucky did that to a lot of people, actually.

"Aye, lad, I'll get your gingerbread. After I slip a little castor oil in it." Her laughter floated in her wake as she headed to the kitchen. They were all laughing, Steve immediately taking a coughing fit.

They sprawled on the bed, playing card games, eating more gingerbread, and reading the stack of comics Bucky had saved up. _Buck Rogers_ and _Tarzan_ were their favourites. Steve had his sketchbook out and Bucky was making up some wild adventures of his own, when Sarah Rogers popped her head in.

"Bucky? It's almost suppertime. Do your parents know where you are?"

"Yes'm, but…" He sprang up. "Oh, gosh! Suppertime?! It'll be dark. I'll have to call Dad."

"We don't have a phone," Steve said.

"But I know Mrs. Romano would let you use hers," his mother said.

"It's snowing again," came Buck's voice from the front room. "Dad'll hate taking out the car in this weather." He came back, frowning.

"Aw, Mam, couldn't he stay the night?" Steve asked, suddenly excited.

"And catch your cold?" she exclaimed. "I think not!"

Buck was grinning. "I wouldn't be catching any colds, ma'am. Aunt Margarita's been sniffling all week. If it was going to hit me, I would have got the KO already."

Sarah Rogers sighed. "Well, telephone your father, and see what he says anyway. I'll take you down to Anna- Mrs. Romano's."

Steve sat on the bed, waiting for them to return, thinking. He noticed how much better he was feeling, and smiled. Just Bucky, a breath of fresh air. _Hot_ air, Aunt Margarita called him. It was like Buck was strong and fast and… dashing. Yes, dashing. And that made Steve feel stronger and better and… not quite dashing. But almost.

The best kind of brother. And annoying as the dickens.

He reached for his sketchbook, formed a picture from a hazy thought: he and Buck in hero getup, guns in hand, flying across the universe. Below Bucky's feet, he wrote _'Buck'_, and beneath himself _'Rogers'_. He smiled at it for a minute, then hastily tore it out, folded it, and scamper- nope, _wobbled_ across the room to the wardrobe, where he tucked it into a little cardboard box of special things.

He made it back to the bed before Bucky came bounding in, smiling. "I'm staying the night," he announced. "If the roads are clear, they'll pick me up before church. If not, Dad'll come and get me on the streetcar."

Since there wasn't room for two on Steve's cot in the corner of his mother's room, the boys put the couch cushions on the floor of the main room and burrowed into a mess of blankets. They must have stayed up talking, but the next thing Steve remembered was waking up curled into the warmth of Bucky's back, the extra cold-induced heaviness almost gone from his lungs.

August 1930

Sand was trickling into Steve's armpit, and he clamped his arm against his side.

"Hold still," Bucky ordered, filling the crack he had just made and patting the sand smooth.

"Hey, need a hand?" Two Italian boys stood over them, water running down their legs in a dozen rivulets. One shook his head, sending drops flying from his hair. Some water caught Steve in the eye, and he blinked, the salt stinging.

"Nothin' like burying your stinkin' baby brother to make you feel good," the other said, making a wicked face.

"He's not–" Bucky started, but the shaggy-haired one was bending over Steve.

"Hey, Baby's crying."

"Hey!" Steve lunged to his feet, sand flying. He staggered a bit and got too close to one of the boys, whose fist shot into his ribs. Down Steve went.

Running with Bucky had toughened him up, sure. But he was still small and thin, and had asthma, and got sick enough that the line between his mother's eyebrows never really seemed to go away.

"I am not a baby!" he shouted, scrambling back up.

"He's the same age as me," Bucky declared, doubling up his fists.

As much as Steve hated lies he wasn't about to correct this one. He moved to stand beside Bucky, spitting into the sand like a real rowdy. "And you can just fight both of us, if that's what you want."

The shaggy-haired one stepped forward, the light of battle in his eyes, but the other caught his arm. "_Smettila_, Marco." Then to Bucky and Steve: "I'm sorry. We were joking. I'm Leonardo, but everyone calls me Ardo because my father is Leo. This _testa calda_," he gave his friend a shake, "is Davide."

Steve and Bucky glanced at each other, silently conferring, until they both relaxed.

"Bucky."

"Steve."

Ardo nodded. Davide shuffled his feet in the sand.

Bucky finally broke the awkward silence. "Want to go on some of the rides with us?" he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the amusement parks.

"Sure!" Ardo said. "Have you been on the Cyclone yet?"

"Nope."

"We'll have to get our money from my papa. How about we meet at the gates?"

"Okay," Bucky said. He turned, and led the way back up the beach to where Steve's mother was sitting on a blanket, reading.

Sarah Rogers looked up from under the brim of her straw hat. Steve suddenly noticed how pretty she was with colour in her cheeks, and her red-gold hair teased round her shoulders by the wind. He thumped down next to her, grabbing his shirt from the knapsack.

"Did I hear a fight going on?" she asked, brushing sand off his back, and ruffling his hair.

"No, ma'am," Bucky said, picking up his own shirt. "Can we have our money?" he asked, fumbling with the buttons in his haste.

Steve stayed quiet as he did up his shirt. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of riding the Cyclone. He'd been on a smaller coaster once and his stomach hadn't exactly enjoyed the ride.

His mother was fishing in her coin purse, counting out, "Two, three, four for you, Buck. And one, two… Ah, there, and four for you, laddie boy."

He held out his hand, and his eyes popped at the sight of four whole shiny quarters.

"Oh, Mam!"

His mother laughed and put one arm around his shoulders, giving him a quick hug. With her other hand she pinched his cheek gently.

"You're getting brown, laddie boy. Just go have some fun, you hear?"

"Yes'm." Steve jumped up, grabbing his shoes. "Come on, Buck."

As they trotted across the beach, winding their way between groups of bathers in the direction of the boardwalk, Steve saw the gleam in Bucky's eye.

"What'cha thinkin'?"

"Can't wait to ride the Cyclone."

"Well, I hope you have fun."

Bucky spun to face him, eyes big. "What do you mean? You don't want to?"

"More like I'm not going to."

"But you have to!"

"Nope."

"Yes, you do!"

"I don't think so."

"You will."

"Won't."

Of course he did. And of course he threw up after.

Of course Davide laughed at him, and Steve would have gladly punched Bucky's face in, if his hands would just stop shaking.

**Notes:**

**Italian words:**  
**_Smettila_****: Stop it.**  
**_Testa calde_****: hothead**  
**(at least according to Google translate).**


	5. Chapter 5

**A Real Friend**

April 1931

Steve tilted his head back to feel the sun's warmth on his face. He sucked in a couple deep breaths, and held back the cough that rose in his chest.

The winter had been long and cold, even longer and colder to Steve, who had spent most of it in bed. So many afternoons he had spent blowing his nose, drinking hot tea, and listening to snowball fights in the street. This was only the fourth time his mother had allowed him outside, now that it was spring.

She had left for work at the hospital, but Mrs. O'Rourke in the next apartment over was to keep an eye on him. He was a little annoyed at that. He was thirteen, for goodness sake. Alright, _almost_ thirteen. But both Steve's parents had come from Ireland as teenage orphans, before they met and married in New York City. Steve's father had died in the war before he was born and the boy had never known any home but the little apartment with his mother's flowered curtains in the window and Mr. Prito across the street who drove the ice cream truck.

Steve's train of thought brought him back to the front steps of his own building. With a little sigh, he settled himself on the top step and opened his sketchbook. He licked his pencil, and squinted up at the numerous lines of laundry, criss-crossing between the buildings. "Start with the houses," he murmured.

Deep in capturing the intricate dance between sheets and shirts and the breeze, it was several minutes before Steve became aware of an argument going on across the street. But the scream of a small child finally broke his concentration, and he glanced up, blinking.

He took in the situation at a glance: George Linwood—Georgie-Porgy, still big, still ugly, still mean—had seven-year-old Danny McClellan's arm in his meaty fist, with little Mary flailing away at his legs. "Let him go!" she was screaming.

Two other big boys were laughing as Georgie lifted Danny off the ground, and shook him like a rat.

Steve did not hesitate. He was across the street in a moment, running in a straight line for the big bully. "Hey!" he yelled, before he collided with Georgie, and all three boys went sprawling.

Coughing, and a tad stunned, Steve picked himself up. "Danny," he gasped. "Get Mary back in the house." He saw Danny snatch something that looked like a big marble out of a mud puddle, before grabbing Mary's hand, and backing away.

Georgie was still sitting on the sidewalk, staring up at Steve. One of his friends, no longer laughing, made a move toward Steve, but George put up his hand to stop him. "You little-," he started. "You little… brat." His face was flushing red as he got to his feet, and Steve's heart skipped a beat, before taking off like a racehorse. This was bad.

But he held his ground. "Pick on someone your own size," he blurted.

George's eyebrows went up, as if he was surprised to hear Steve even speak to him. "Looks like we got another immigrant brat here that doesn't know his place," George said over his shoulder to his friends.

He took a step forward, and Steve stood firm. Suddenly he was angry too. "What do you mean 'our place'? I'm as American as you, and so are they." He jerked his head toward the McClellan children, still watching from their doorway.

"If you're from Ireland," Georgie sneered, "you're a dirty little Mick. Wherever you go."

"That might have been true in England or wherever your family came from," Steve answered. "But here in America it's different. It doesn't matter where you're from. What matters is where you call home."

"Little punk," Georgie blurted. And then he was on Steve.

Steve went down at once, though he kicked out and swung his fists valiantly. A punch landed on his mouth, and he tasted blood. This was definitely not the first time he'd been beaten up by a bully, but now he had three to deal with. He was also suddenly aware of how hard it was getting for him to breathe.

A blow caught him in the stomach, and he doubled up in pain. He closed his eyes, trying to force his lungs to work, trying to get up and fight. He made it as far as his hands and knees, before someone kicked him in the stomach again.

"That's enough!" came a distant bellow, and Steve was aware of a sharp exchange of blows somewhere over his head. No more punches came his way, but he was so focussed on catching his breath, that it was a minute or two until he registered that the street was quiet again.

Slowly he opened his eyes and looked up into the faces of little Mary, Danny, and… Dark floppy hair, dark expressive eyes in a serious face, a strong, friendly hand reaching to pull him up… "Steve! Gosh, do you _like_ getting beat up?" There was concern mixed with admiration in the boy's voice. "Haven't seen you in ages. You 'kay?"

"Bucky," Steve managed, sitting up and wiping blood off his lip. "What are you doing here?"

"We just moved here," Bucky said, pointing up at the tenement house beside Steve's. "And if this is what you've been doing with all your time, I think it wasn't a minute too soon."

"I got my marble back," Danny said, smiling now. He held up his fist, and Steve glimpsed bits of color between his fingers.

"Brave boy, Stevie," Mary said, patting his arm.

"I'll say." Bucky helped Steve to his feet, then steadied him as he wavered. "You sure you're okay?"

"I will be," Steve said, attempting a smile. It took all his will power to walk back across the street to his perch on the steps, but he wouldn't let Bucky think any less of him. He retrieved his sketchbook and sat down, suddenly exhausted.

Bucky thumped down beside him, and Danny and Mary sat a couple steps down. Mary tilted her head back between Steve's feet, and looked at him upside-down. He smiled at her.

"Wait." He turned to Bucky who was looking back at him, still worried. "What? You moved? When? Why? I mean…" Stunned by the full impact of Buck's statement, he gestured around, taking in the close quarters, the dirt and poverty of what was actually one of the better streets in this part of Brooklyn. "Why are you _here_?"

Bucky looked away. "Dad's company was going down. Like everything else these days. But then back in December, before Christmas… the bank collapsed." His voice dropped so Steve could barely hear him. "Lost every cent." Then with a jerk he straightened, turning to Steve with a brittle sort of smile. "So… we're here."

Steve could see the shame hidden behind Bucky's tough front. He smiled. "Well I'm glad, for one. I missed not seeing you at school."

"Yeah." Buck looked away again. "Sorry, I didn't–"

"Steve?" a woman's voice interrupted them. Steve glanced up to see Mrs. O'Rourke leaning out her window. "Are you all right? I thought I heard a fight or something going on."

_So much for keeping an eye on me._ "I'm okay," he called back.

"Well, why don't you and your friends come in here? I've been baking." Steve caught a scent of shortbread drifting out of the window.

"Gladly, ma'am," Bucky called back, doffing his cap. He grinned at Steve, chasing the shadows away. "If this is what I get for rescuing you, you're gonna to have to let me do it often."

The next day was a Saturday, but Sunday was the only day of rest Sarah Rogers ever got. She always started early on Saturdays in order to finish her shift and do her shopping before the stores closed. Steve would meet her at the soda shop on the corner of Third, for three o'clock.

He was lying in bed, thinking about that cool Coke, only half awake, when he heard the front door shut. He stretched, and froze, pain cutting across his abdomen.

Now he was definitely awake, and he sat up, gingerly rubbing his stomach. At least he'd been able to hide the bruises from his mother. But even that could not detract from the glory of a Saturday morning.

He ate breakfast—shredded wheat and milk—slowly, wondering what he would do today. Maybe he should take the streetcar down to the Navy yard and sketch some boats; he had only done that once last summer. But Mother would probably be furious when she found out. He sighed. For today at least, he would stay close to home.

He went back to his room, ran a finger along his shelf of books, and pulled out a random volume. _Hardy Boys: the Missing Chums._ Tucking it under his arm along with his sketchbook and pencils, he headed for the front door. He almost fell over Bucky sitting on the top step in Steve's usual spot.

"Hey," the boy said, with something less than his usual enthusiasm. He slid over, stared out across the street.

"You 'kay?" Steve asked, sitting down.

"Look," he started. "I wanted to– I should say I- I- I'm… sorry. That I didn't visit," he finished in a rush. "I just–"

"S'okay." Steve shrugged. Gosh, how he'd missed him. But if he'd been facing _that_… "I get it."

The words came tumbling out, finally released. "Becca won't even talk to my parents, she hates them she says, she never wanted to move. She actually ran away to Rachel's house and my dad had to bring her back and now she has to share a room with the twins again and she keeps slapping them when they get in the way and they're young enough that they don't really get why everything's changed, it just _has_, and I can't remember the last time–" He stopped, fighting the choke in his voice, except Steve was close enough to catch the whisper, "–Dad smiled."

Steve bit his lip, hearing Bucky's uneven breathing, hesitated, and casually propped his elbow on Bucky's shoulder as he opened his sketchbook and started scrawling.

After a while, a gang of boys came past, Steve glancing up, then dropping his gaze. With their gloves and a couple bats, and Malcom the leader tossing that ball casually with one hand, they were a group he didn't belong with.

"Hey, new kid!"

Steve jerked his head back up. The boys were clustered around the bottom of the stairs, staring up. Bucky hesitated, glanced at Steve, and then sat forward, pointing to himself. "Me?'

"Yeah." Malcom was a tall coloured boy, about fourteen, whom Steve had once seen lace a pitch through the window of a moving car. On purpose. At least, he was pretty sure it was on purpose. "You play?" Malcom held up his glove.

Bucky hesitated and sort of sank back onto the step. "Yeah."

"Come on down to the sandlot with us. We'll give you a tryout."

"Sorry, no thanks," Buck said. "I don't feel like it right now." He glanced at Steve. "And we got something else planned."

In that moment, Steve knew three things. One: Bucky adored baseball, almost as much as boxing, two: he was willing to let this chance at getting in with the neighborhood gang go for Steve, and three: Steve couldn't let him.

"Go!" he hissed, poking Buck hard in the arm.

"Aw, you can bring Shrimp if you want," Tony Russo drawled, pushing back his cap. "Keep score for us, Shrimp?"

Bucky suddenly grinned. "Alright, Shrimp. We'll hit up the movies another day. I'll go grab my glove and stuff and tell my parents where we're going."

Sitting cross-legged against the fence, scorecard tucked into the pages of _The Missing Chums_, Steve watched Bucky crush balls, and field grounders, and turn a dashing double-play as shortstop.

When they finally broke up for dinner, Bucky—bat over his shoulder, dirt on his face and on his pants—came swinging across to Steve, put out a hand, pulled Steve to his feet. He met Steve's eyes, the grin softened, and he punched Steve's shoulder lightly. "Thanks, pal. You're a real pal."

"Same to you," Steve smiled, socking him back.

Bucky deflected the swing with ease. "Wow," he groaned. "Someone's got to teach you how to throw a punch."

**Notes:**

**More words from the day:**  
**Mick: derogatory term for an Irishman.**  
**Dinner: today we call it lunch!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Manhattan Heat**

July 1931

That was a long hot summer, though not as long as some summers Steve had known. Every morning he would wake up, eat his breakfast, and head out to find Bucky sitting on the steps.

Their greeting was always the same: 'Hiya, Buck' 'Hey, Rogers' and they would grin over the little joke. They would pool their allowances and take Becca and her friend Rachel to the movies. They would load the twins—and Becca if she got tired—into Bucky's old wagon and walk to Prospect Park.

Steve watched Bucky play half a hundred games of ball, and win every one of them. They would sneak into the fight club to watch the boxers train, and sometimes Bucky could beg a short lesson in exchange for his and Steve's help filling chalk bags and rolling bandages.

After supper, they would crowd around the Barnes' kitchen table to listen to _Sherlock Holmes_, _Rin-Tin-Tin_ and of course, _Buck Rogers in the 25__th__ Century_. Sometimes when _Amos 'n Andy_ came on, Bucky would switch over to the sports, trying to tease his father who loved the comedy show. The twins—Elizabeth with the straight hair, whom everyone called Lizbet, and Anna with the snub nose, who was called Annie for Little Orphan Annie—would jump on him and tickle him until he fell over and Mrs. Barnes could turn the dial back.

Once or twice Steve thought he saw the man smile, but it was there and gone. He remembered sitting on the man's knee with Bucky, listening to Jack Dempsey's final fight against Tunney and wondered why things had to change.

August 1931

Steve fingered the three nickels in his pocket; enough for a Coke each, and maybe an ice cream on the side. That would feel great on a day like this. He pulled his damp shirt away from his stomach and flapped it, trying to cool himself a bit. Manhattan was an oven.

Bucky scuffed his shoes on the sidewalk, and Steve glanced at him. He was supposed to be in charge of this adventure. Each boy had a couple sandwiches, from Mrs. Barnes, but she didn't exactly know they had been planning to cross the bridge.

"Getting hungry?" Bucky asked suddenly.

"Sure!" Steve had already heard a clock strike the quarter-after.

"'Kay. Let's find a place to get a drink."

They hung a right at the next corner, and passed some apple sellers. Steve always tried to smile at them, like his mother did, instead of just ignoring them. Only the last one actually glanced at him and Steve saw the corners of his mouth start to go up, before the man froze. Bucky stopped dead and Steve walked right into his back.

"Bucky!" Mr. Barnes blurted, involuntarily reaching for his son, and almost knocking over his apple display.

Buck made an odd strangled sound, before he put his head down and fled. "Bucky!" Steve yelled, and bolted after him.

His friend was running blind, knocking into people, paying no heed to cars as he flew across one street and then another. "Buck!" Steve gasped, almost no breath left.

The crowds thinned as the buildings turned to apartments and smaller shops and Steve slowed in a sudden panic: Bucky had disappeared. He staggered, fighting for air, tried to catch himself and tumbled into an alley. He sat up, and felt the tightening in his chest, like an iron hand squeezing the oxygen out of his lungs. _No. oh, no._

He couldn't, could _not_ breathe. His hand clutched his chest convulsively, wild desperation seizing him. In some detached part of his mind he knew his panic was not helping, that he needed to calm down. But he'd never had to deal with an asthma attack alone, especially not one this bad.

Hands gripped his shoulders, someone was calling his name.

"Steve! Oh, God, please! Stevie, listen to me. You _need_ to breathe. Yes, you can," Bucky answered his unspoken question. "Here." He grabbed one of Steve's hands and pressed it to his own chest. "Follow my breathing."

Bucky was almost as breathless as Steve, but gradually his breathing slowed and bit by bit Steve was able to take one breath and then another.

Finally he looked up at Bucky, and went still. "Buck?"

Tears trailed down his flushed cheeks, and as Steve said his name, he seemed to crumple. Slumped against the alley wall, he buried his face in his hands. Steve didn't ask any questions, he just slid over and put his arm around his friend's shoulders. The shock and humiliation of seeing his father, a respected businessman selling apples in the street like a- a beggar, broke through all Buck's defences. He cried and Steve held on.

When the tears finally slowed into hiccups and sniffles, Bucky muttered, "You tell anyone about this, I'll give ya the business."

Steve managed a laugh. "I'll take it to my grave."

They heard footsteps and glanced up.

Five boys were silhouetted against the sunshine at the entrance to the alley. "What the heck?" one said.

"Trespassers!" cried another.

"Get 'em!"

Bucky sprang to his feet in front of Steve, bracing to protect his friend.

The first boy rushed him. Bucky's fist met his jaw squarely. Felled him like a tree.

The next two tackled Bucky together, driving him back against the wall.

Crouching low, trying not to attract attention, Steve scuttled out of the way.

He saw the last two getting ready to pile on, and dove for their legs. They toppled and Steve rolled, escaping the tangle of bodies.

He popped to his feet about to jump on them, and beat the tar out of them, when he heard Bucky yell, "Get outta here, Steve! Just go!"

"No!" He landed a solid jab to the one boy's solar plexus. "Not without you!"

A vicious hook smashed into his cheek and he reeled.

He took another punch.

And another.

Stars. Blood. Sweat. Pain.

He kicked out blindly, caught his assailant in a soft spot.

Steve could feel the right side of his face swelling already, but he caught a glimpse of Bucky, back to the wall, holding his own.

Again someone loomed over him.

This time a boot smashed down on his left hand, driving, twisting, grinding.

The pain seared through him.

He screamed.

Screamed again.

He arched his back, trying to pull his hand away, the bones– His hand– God help him. What would his mother say?

The crushing force vanished. Bodies crashed down on him, driving the air out of his lungs.

Somewhere he could hear Bucky's voice. Then a man shouting.

And then the thrashing and grunting and struggle were gone, and he was limp and gasping, like a truck had run over him.

"Steve!" Bucky leaned over him. "You dummy, I told you to go!"

"I'm. Fine," Steve managed, sitting up slowly. He was somewhat surprised he hadn't broken all the bones in his body. Gingerly he cradled his hand against his stomach.

"Wait. Let me see that," a man's voice ordered.

Startled, Steve looked up at Mr. Barnes. The man smiled thinly, his eyes a storm of emotions. "I thought Buck was going to kill that d– darn kid standing on you. Good thing I found you boys when I did."

Steve saw Bucky glance sideways at his father, as if unsure how to respond.

"We should get some ice on that hand, and on your face," Mr. Barnes said. He made as if to pick Steve up, but Steve held out his uninjured hand to Bucky, who pulled him up easily, then steadied him when he wavered.

Sitting at the back of an ice cream shop, a cold, wet cloth around his hand, which Mr. Barnes was pretty sure was not broken, but they would stop at the hospital just to be sure, and another on his eye, Steve watched Bucky stare into his dish of melting chocolate.

"Are you gonna eat that?" he finally asked. He'd already finished his three scoops of vanilla.

"Yeah." Bucky shoved a spoonful into his mouth and swallowed, with no relish at all. Finally he leaned close enough that his father couldn't hear. "You should have run, stupid."

Steve frowned. "I couldn't just leave you. Five on two is better than five on one." He dropped his gaze to the floor. "Even if I ain't much good."

"Long as you keep at it, they have to quit at some point."

Steve glanced up, fighting a smile. "Which means no running."

Bucky blinked, and then he was laughing. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does."

**Notes:**

**Or should this chapter be called 'Not Without You'?**  
**It's funny how characters can take a story down streets I didn't know were there. I heard Bucky yell and Steve's reply and I was like, 'Wait, didn't they say that in the movies?! Except that was the other way around.' And I just started laughing because it was 'right'. Just 'right'.**  
**I have to say it again: I love those boys!**

**Historical note:**  
**Apple growers in the Northwest US had a bumper crop in 1930. Someone had the idea of selling the excess (on credit) to poor unemployed men, for them to sell. There were six thousand of these little fruit stands in New York alone. In 1931 they were declared a nuisance by the city and removed by the end of the year. For most of these proud working men, it was akin to begging, but they would do anything to feed their families**.


	7. Chapter 7

**Joy to the World**

Christmas 1931

A bang at the front door made Steve jump, and he turned around to see Bucky come in, breathless and bundled up against the cold. The temperature had plunged in the last week, almost to 0 last night, and Steve wished it would snow, but so far no luck.

"Steve!" Bucky blurted. He wrenched off his cap and began twisting it in his hands. "What are we gonna do? If we stay, we'll freeze. No one's going to be able to fix it 'til after Christmas, Dad said. And Mother said she didn't want to die for pride and–" His face crumpled and he turned away.

Sarah Rogers came out of her room, still pulling on a sweater. "Good heavens, Bucky! What on earth is the matter?"

In a few minutes the whole story came out. The boiler in the Barnes' apartment building had blown early that morning. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but heat would not be restored until the day after Christmas. Mr. Barnes did not really want to ask for help and Bucky's mom disagreed. Things had disintegrated into a screaming match and Bucky had bolted.

"And it's already really cold in there, we've got to find a place to stay. And- and tomorrow's _Christmas_." Bucky choked again and had to go pour himself a glass of water in the kitchen.

Mrs. Rogers was moving suddenly, shoving her feet into her husband's old winter boots, pulling her coat on, calling, "Stay here, boys," as she disappeared out the door.

Steve gave a sigh of relief. "Don't worry, Buck," he said, giving his friend's shoulder a little shake. "It'll be okay."

The room was dark, when Steve stirred and opened his eyes. He wondered what had woken him. Bucky was asleep on his shoulder, and the girls slept in a heap on their own bed of couch cushions. Bucky's parents had the big bed, Steve's mother had his cot, and Aunt Margarita was spending the night at Mrs. O'Rourke's.

Steve closed his eyes, then heard an odd squeaking sort of sound, quickly stifled. It came again. Bucky stirred, lay still for a moment, both of them listening.

A gasping noise, and Bucky sat up. "Becca?" he whispered.

"Go… away," she managed to say, before she gave up, buried her head in her pillow, and cried. By some miracle the twins did not wake, even when Becca crawled over to huddle against Bucky's other side.

Maybe they all cried some on that Christmas Eve, or maybe it was already Christmas Day; Steve didn't really care. He would give almost anything to make the world right again for Buck and Rebecca and everyone else. Why did people have to lose their jobs and their money and start fighting and cry at _Christmas?_ What about peace and goodwill and _miracles?_ What about the angels and the Baby and–?

And that was when Steve knew what they had to do.

Their surprise was saved until the evening, after supper; it took most of the day to prepare anyway. The day was actually a pretty happy one, with at least one small present for everybody under the little tree, decorated with the Barnes' Christmas lights, and the completely unexpected arrival of a basket on the doorstep, that contained a whole chicken, a small sack of potatoes, candies and a few other foodstuffs. Nobody ever did find out where it came from.

At dinner Steve even noticed Mr. Barnes holding his wife's hand under the table. But he never laughed, or even really smiled.

As they finished dessert—his mother's old Irish Christmas cake which they had every year without fail—Bucky stood up, and cleared his throat. "Ah, we have a surprise for you all, a special Christmas present really, but we have to get it ready, so if you would all wait in here, and then come into the living room when we are ready, that would be wonderful."

The adults all agreed, though Aunt Margarita gave Buck the eagle eye. Sarah Rogers caught her son's eye and grinned at him.

When they were ready, Bucky invited the grown-ups to take seats on the couch. Steve felt his heart rate pick up as he stood just inside the bedroom door, waiting for his cue. Annie gripped his hand tightly. Peeping through the crack he could see Bucky, holding the Bible, standing opposite the couch. His friend took a deep breath and began to read.

"And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from… President Hoover, that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first made when… Roosevelt was governor of New York.)" Someone chuckled, and Steve was pretty sure it was his mother who went, "Aha."

When Bucky got to the line, "And Joseph also went up from… New Jersey, out of the city of Newark…" Steve and Annie made their appearance. Dressed in their oldest clothes, Annie had a pillow stuffed down the front of her dress. As Bucky kept going: "…unto the city of David which is called… Brooklyn…" Steve gave the watchers a quick glance. Mr. Barnes was definitely smiling. Even Aunt Margarita wasn't scolding at this not quite Biblical retelling of the Christmas story.

Joseph and Mary travelled down the middle of the room and back, before settling against the bookcases to Bucky's right.

"And she brought forth her first firstborn son, (Annie pulled out the pillow and took her baby doll out from where it was hidden in a blanket) and wrapped him in old rags, and laid him in… an old tin washtub, in an alley, because there was no room for them in any of the hotels."

The adults laughed softly at the 'old tin washtub', but Steve could see them getting absorbed in the story. He slipped away from Annie's side and joined Lizbet in the middle of the floor, huddling under a blanket.

"And there were in the same country hoboes abiding in… the Hooverville in Central Park, keeping watch over their… children by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them…"

This was Becca's big moment. She appeared in the bedroom doorway, wearing her cleanest, prettiest, whitest nightgown, with a sash of gold tissue paper around her waist. She had written out on her own paper the angel's words and she recited them without flaw, her voice somehow strong and sweet at the same time. This time no one laughed when she said, "Ye shall find the babe wrapped in rags and lying in an old tin washtub in an alley."

When they got to the multitude of angels part, all of the kids joined in together, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!"

No, it was not his imagination, Mr. Barnes was smiling.

"…the hoboes said one to another, 'Let us now go even unto… Brooklyn, and see this thing which is come to pass…"

Steve ducked behind Bucky to return to his position as Joseph.

"And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in an old tin washtub in an alley."

Lizbet scooted close and Becca stood over them, smiling, as Bucky finished reading. "And the hoboes returned to Hooverville, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen as it was told unto them."

There was a long hushed silence, after Bucky closed the Bible and held it against his chest. Steve could hear someone sniffing back tears, and he hated to break the moment, but hopefully this would build it instead. He began to sing, softly, and after the first note everyone else joined in.

_Silent night, holy night_

_All is calm, all is bright_

_Round yon virgin, mother and Child_

_Holy infant so tender and mild_

_Sleep in heavenly peace_

_Sleep in heavenly peace_

As they sang, Steve risked a glance at Mr. Barnes. He was actually not singing. Instead he sat with a smile on his lips and tears on his cheeks and light glowing all over his face as he looked at his children.

Something in Steve's chest swelled until it hurt and he looked away, meeting his mother's gaze. She was looking at him in the exact same way, and he remembered that Joseph was _his_ dad. So he went over and curled up in her lap, and she wrapped her arms around him and held him close.

July 4, 1932

Standing on the boardwalk, an evening breeze whipping his hair, watching the fireworks shower over the bay, Steve linked arms with his mother, and felt her smile.

On his other side, Bucky rested his arms on the railing, so their shoulders touched. He didn't say anything though. Nobody did, except for some scattered 'ohh's and 'ahh's. It was one of the best shows Steve had ever seen, and he'd been coming to Coney Island for his birthday for as long as he could remember.

Blue, red, green, gold; waterfalls, flowers, stars, butterflies.

He felt someone touch his shoulder, and glanced over. Mr. Barnes had put his arm around Bucky's shoulders and rested his hand on Steve's.

Something tightened in his chest, but not painfully. He just sort of knew without looking that Mrs. Barnes was holding her husband's hand and Annie was holding hers and Lizbet was holding hers and Rebecca was holding hers… and they were family.

He looked up to the sparkling sky and made one little wish: that somewhere, somehow, his father could see this too.

**Author's notes: Absolutely no disrespect is meant to the Bible (KJV), but I think retelling Jesus's birth in the sense of 'if He had come in my world' is very powerful, because of course the truth is: He did come for everyone, back then and now. And joy to the world is for every day.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Stand With You**

September 1932

The big blond kid tried to fake his way past Bucky, but Buck had none of it, stealing the ball and dribbling all the way down the court, before laying a sweet pass to Jacob, who scored an easy basket.

Steve grinned, then tried to return his focus to his book. "'Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm'," he murmured. "Well, darn right, Mr. Lincoln, but my mother said it first."

"Steve!" Bucky's voice echoed in the big high-school gymnasium.

"Yeah?" He tossed a towel to his friend, who stopped in front of Steve.

"Anything to suggest?"

"Beasley in the blue shirt. He's really weak to his left. And the red head is scared of you."

Bucky laughed, wiping sweat off his face. "I like redheads. Long as it tops a pretty face."

Steve rolled his eyes as Bucky ran back to his pick-up basketball game. The girls practically swooned in the halls, when Bucky Barnes walked past. And Bucky never seemed to mind getting his head turned. Steve had no idea what to make of girls his own age.

As Buck trotted to his place, Beasley turned and said something, which Steve couldn't catch. He saw Bucky stop, glance in Steve's direction, and say quite clearly, "Shut up!"

Beasley's team seemed to get impatient, because they in-bounded the ball before Bucky was in position.

But that sort of thing didn't faze Buck. He closed on the red-haired boy, who simply froze and dropped the ball. As he worked his way back up the court, Steve could see the play unfolding, how Buck was setting himself up to go head-to-head with Beasley.

Beasley was the last man between him and the basket and Buck took Steve's advice to the letter, driving to his right—Beasley's left—causing Beasley to stumble and take a hard fall. Bucky coolly laid in the ball for his twentieth basket.

Steve could not entirely restrain his whoop and Bucky put up his fists in response, grinning.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw the ball coming and ducked. It slammed against the wall behind him, rebounded and hit his shoulder hard. Bucky flew to his side, scooping up the ball, and wheeling to face the court again.

Beasley stalked toward them. "That punk's gonna coach, he gotta play too. Why you taking tips from a milquetoast like him? Ain't never played a game in his life–"

"He's a hundred times a better player than you and you know it!" Steve blurted.

"Get lost, shrimp!" Beasley snapped. "My deal is with stuck-up Babe Ruth– Oof!" His words ended abruptly as the basketball slammed into his stomach.

"I'd rather sit with a friend, then play with a bully," Bucky stated, words ringing in the now silenced gym. He turned his back on the other boy, putting his arm around Steve's shoulders and steering him toward the door to the change rooms. "Let's go, pal."

Behind them Steve heard the sound of many feet, and glanced over his shoulder. He didn't try to hide his amazed smile.

Every other boy on the court was falling in behind them, leaving Beasley alone. Several gave Steve a quick nod: _We're with you._

He felt Bucky's hand tighten on his shoulder.

March 1933

Joe Hardy had been kidnapped. And Frank and his chums were desperate to find him.

One page flicked over and then another, as Steve read on, lost in the excitement.

"Psst." A kick against his knee brought him to with a start, and he looked up from the library floor. Up, up at 'Beanpole' Jones, who was often Bucky's doubles partner on the tennis court.

"What?"

"Is it true?" Beanpole looked… discombobulated.

"Is what true?"

"Did Buck quit the tennis team?"

_Aw, darn._ "How-? I mean, what are you talking about?" Steve bit his lip, wondering how convincing he could be.

"Hey, fellas. What-?" Bucky stopped dead when Beanpole turned around. "Applesauce."

"Whadda'ya mean you quit?" Beanpole's voice began to rise. "We have the city tournament in two weeks. You can't just dump us like this. Why-?"

_"Shhh!"_

Bucky glanced at the librarian, who glared back. "Let's take this outside."

Out in the street it was raining, a fine cold drizzle. Bucky hunched his shoulders. "We'd better get you home, Stevie, old boy. Aunt Sarah won't want you out in this."

Beanpole grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. "For crying out loud, Barnes. What the heck is going on?"

Bucky put his head down, stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I probably should have told you first, but only Mr. Dibbles knew, and Steve, and I was coming to tell you, but… I guess you know."

"I didn't tell anyone," Steve murmured.

"Sorry," Bucky said again, meeting Beanpole's gaze squarely. "Guess you'll have to find a new partner."

"But _why?!_"

Buck shrugged, strangely unsure. "Just… need to focus on schoolwork. Gotta get my grades up to As. Like Stevie, here."

"Why the heck do you need good grades when you got sports?" Beanpole threw his hands up. "You could do anything you wanted to."

"My mother wants me to go to college," Steve interjected. That was why they scrimped and scrounged on every penny and why she made him study so much when he was sick in bed.

"And I want to go myself," Bucky said quietly. "Maybe even to university."

"Fine!" Beanpole exploded. "Have it your way, collage boy. But don't ask me to play with you again, traitor."

Bucky watched him go, twisting his mouth in that way Steve knew meant he was torn up inside. Steve shivered suddenly, his teeth chattering.

Bucky swung round. "Woah, we gotta get you home." Then he stopped, looking down at Steve, an odd, vulnerable expression on his face. "So, we sticking it out through college?"

Steve grinned, grabbed his hand, and pumped it up and down. "Absolutely, Dr. Barnes. You'll be inventing dynamo rays and thermic radiation projectors–"

"And you'll be getting your scrawls hung in the National Art Gallery!" Buck laughed now. He tucked Steve under his arm, in a mostly futile attempt to keep him dry, and the two boys headed for home.

**Author's notes: Abraham Lincoln also said, 'Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.' Echoes of Dr. Erskine's speech!**  
**Steve was reading What Happened at Midnight.**  
**The second snapshot was inspired by a line (47) in Griselda_Banks' 'All the Stars in the Sky'.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?**

June 1933

There was plenty of laughter and teasing as Bucky readied for one more round. Steve bit his lip, part of him urging his friend on, part of him hoping that Buck had another quarter in his pocket. Because Steve did not. And they still had to get home.

_Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping…_ Bucky rattled off his shots, felling one tin duck after another. The current of excitement rose, Dolores clapping her hands, thinking maybe this time…

He missed the last one.

If it hadn't been for the girl standing beside him, Steve was pretty sure Bucky would have lost his temper. As it was he shook the gun hard, and muttered, "Applesauce!" under his breath several times.

Finally, he handed the pop gun back to the man in charge of the stall and turned to Dolores. "Shucks, Dot. Sorry I couldn't get that one either."

The red-haired girl laughed and slipped her arm through his. "Gosh, Bucky, you've been trying all day. I don't really need that bear. But you did everything you could." Her brilliant smile would have mollified any boy.

"Alright," Bucky said, cheering up. "Let's go get ice cream." A few others in the gang of high-schoolers chimed in agreeably.

"My turn to treat," Debby, Dolores's twin sister, said.

"And I am too much of a gentleman to refuse," Bucky grinned.

They had finished their cold treats, when Debby announced that she and Dolores should really be going, since it was almost supper. Everyone else agreed.

As they headed out of the park in the direction of the train station, Bucky pulled Steve aside. "Do you still have your train money?"

Steve stared at him, instantly knowing… "No. You borrowed it for hotdogs. You told me you had plenty more."

Buck looked down, opened his mouth once or twice, and then peered at Steve from the corner of his eye. "Say, don't you remember, I'm your pal? Buddy, can you spare a dime?" he sang.

"You are… incorrigible!" Steve exploded. "You waste three whole dollars trying to get dumb Dot a bear you could buy her from the store for one. And half of that was my money. Now we're stuck in Rockaway Beach, because you are such a _jerk!_"

For once Bucky had the grace to look ashamed. "Aw, come on, Steve. She wanted it for her little brother and you know he's been sick. All we gotta do is find another way home."

That silenced Steve, and he followed Bucky back into the park. "If we can just find a truck, or somebody," Bucky said, "even if they're crossing the bridge, we can hop off in Brooklyn."

For a little while, they skulked around through the crowds that still lingered. It was Steve who spotted the freezer truck. The name on the door caught his attention: _Parlour Ices, 1040 Fulton St. Brooklyn._

He touched Bucky's sleeve and they followed it around the corner. Crouching behind a barrel, they watched it pull up to the back of the ice cream stand.

"Rats," Bucky muttered. "Freezer truck. Don't need you to get frozen. Never mind."

"Fine time to think of that," Steve answered.

He hesitated, just long enough for the driver and the ice cream man to be busy, before he darted forward, pulled the back door of the truck open and sprang in. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness and he shivered involuntarily.

There were several crates and he scuttled behind them, crouching in the corner. It seemed forever before there was another scrambling noise and Bucky joined him.

"Aunt Sarah is going to kill me!" he hissed. Steve put his hand over Bucky's mouth, as men's voices sounded nearby, and the doors were slammed shut. They did not dare move until the engine had started.

When the truck was finally moving, Bucky struggled out of his sweater, and thrust it at Steve. "Put this on," he ordered.

The trip seemed long to Steve, but not a word of complaint crossed his lips. His teeth were chattering so hard he wouldn't have been able to speak anyway. Bucky pulled him close, wrapping both arms around him, trying to keep him warm.

Finally, the truck stopped and Steve could hear Bucky's heart thudding. What if the driver didn't open up the back and they were trapped in here until the cows came home?

There was a lot of banging and thumping after the engine was silenced; then voices. Someone unlatched the doors and swung them wide open. Both boys gasped, squinting at the sudden light.

Two men were talking: "Gotta unload and take her in to the shop."

"Where do we put it?"

"In the back."

They grabbed some boxes and their voices faded as they walked away. Bucky crawled to the door, hauling Steve after him. The late-June warmth washed over them, and as they made their half-frozen way home, Steve and Buck made a pact to never take a free ride in a freezer truck again.

August 1933

His best friend moved a lot slower these days. Bucky entered the room, and fell across the foot of the bed without a word.

Steve didn't really feel like talking either. He hated getting colds, in the summer especially. This one was less cough, and more stuffy nose and headache. He'd been down for the count for five days now.

Sarah Rogers came quietly in, put a Coke bottle in Steve's hand and a Pepsi in Buck's, then left to keep making supper. Slowly Bucky sat up and popped the cap, before scoffing back half of his soda in one breath. He took another swig, then settled back more comfortably, propping his head on Steve's legs.

"How go's it, old boy?" he asked, words slurring a bit with weariness.

Steve shrugged. "It goes." He wasn't going to complain, not when Bucky had spent all day slaving as errand boy in a hot factory.

"Really? Doesn't sound like it has." Bucky sat up again, and leaned over to put his hand on Steve's forehead. His palm was cool from holding his drink.

"Okay, so I still feel like that mouse Patchwork bit the head off yesterday. Hey, did you know Aunt Winnie thinks she's going to have kittens?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Ain't that the cat's pajamas," he said sarcastically, then began to laugh at his own pun.

Mrs. Rogers let Bucky eat with Steve, while she and Mrs. Romano, who was visiting, had supper in the kitchen. When they had finished their usual boiled beef and potatoes, washed down with milk and gingerbread, Steve sat back against the headboard and eyed his friend.

"What's eating you?"

Buck, who was sitting staring at the sketch on the wall of the Statue of Liberty with Ellis Island in the background, started. Steve saw the corners of his mouth twitch as he looked down. "You read minds, too?" he asked.

"Only yours," Steve joked.

With a sigh Bucky stretched out on his stomach beside Steve, propping himself up on his elbows. He picked at the quilt for a while, and Steve grabbed his sketchbook off the nightstand. He would wait as long as Bucky needed him to.

"I'm scared," Buck finally whispered. "Everything was supposed to be better with Mr. Roosevelt and the New Deal and jobs and money." His voice rose. "But Dad gets sick and now he's still sitting at home, and Mother and me can't hardly… Now it's the rent– I don't know." He took a deep breath. "You know how Dad moved us here to try to save money until he could find work."

Steve nodded, biting his lip.

Bucky looked down at the thread he had pulled out of the quilt. "We missed the rent last month," he muttered. "If we miss again…"

"You'll get thrown out," Steve said quietly.

Bucky sat up with a jerk, slamming his fist into the mattress. "It's so not fair! We made it this far. We scrimped on everything, we shared everything you and your mam would give, we got Roosevelt… And _now_ we get the bum's rush."

Steve sat quietly, not sure what to say.

Bucky dug his hand into his pocket and chucked a handful of money on the bed: a dollar-bill and two quarters. "All the money I got and it's going to buy supper tomorrow. Don't even have a dime for Dad to take the subway."

"Yeah, you do."

Bucky looked at him, his face bleak with despair. Steve hauled himself out of the bed, and grabbed his everyday trousers off the back of the chair. He dug his hand in the right pocket. _There._ Silently he held out his hand, the little silver coin gleaming softly in his palm.

"Take it, pal," he said, smiling. "Go help your dad find a job tomorrow."

**Author's notes: I still can't believe Bucky spent $3. That's almost $60 in today's money! I can just hear my sister taking my head off if I did something like that...**

**Obviously this chapter title is taken from the song Bing Crosby made famous back then.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Giving Thanks**

March 10, 1934

Steve knocked loudly at the Barnes' door, then jammed his hands in his pockets. He might be a terrible liar, but he wasn't going to let this secret slip. No, he should just focus on what– Bucky stepped out, startling him.

"Oh. Hey."

"Hey, Steve. What's new?"

"Oh, um I was… wondering if you wanted to go to the movies. The Strand has a double bill, _Sons of the Desert_ and _Duck Soup_."

Bucky's face lit up. "Laurel and Hardy _and_ the Marx brothers? Gee, that's swell. That's- that's the cat's pajamas!"

"My treat," Steve added, jingling the coins in his pocket. "Happy birthday, by the way."

As a thank you Bucky put Steve in a headlock, and made him fight his way out.

"We'll make a fighter out of you one of these days," Bucky said, grinning at his triumphant friend. "Wait. I mean a good one."

Steve chased him down the street as far as the corner.

They heartily enjoyed the movies, and Steve insisted they stop for a soda on the way home. He had to make sure his mother and the others had enough time to–

"Why are you grinning like that?" Bucky asked, draining his bottle of Pepsi, and jumping down from their seat in the window.

"Like what?" Steve asked, following him to the door. "Thanks, Mr. Lovitz," he called.

The man behind the counter, with the salt-and-pepper hair and pince-nez, waved back. "_Gern geschehen_, Steven, Bucky. See you later."

As they made their way down the street Bucky began to sing, "I will not stand for anything that's crooked or unfair. I'm strictly on the up-and-up, so everyone beware. If anyone's caught taking graft… and I don't get my share, we stand him up against the wall and…"

"Pop goes the weasel!" both boys chorused.

When they reached their apartment buildings, Steve glanced up, searching for– Aha. The curtains were closed. He seized Bucky's arm. "Come on. We've got a surprise for you at our place."

Bucky grinned and went along, but when Steve flung open his front door and shoved his friend in with a breathless cry of, "Here he is!" he froze.

In a moment he was surrounded by clamouring cousins, second-cousins, and a few aunts and uncles too.

Steve squeezed his way around the crowd, to find his mother standing in the kitchen. She smiled and gave him a big hug, kissed his cheek. "You timed that right. Gertie and Tom only got here five minutes ago."

"And Uncle George isn't mad?"

Sarah Rogers laughed and turned her son to look where she was pointing. "I don't think so."

Bucky's dad was getting a hug and a kiss from his sister, while talking animatedly with Uncle Harold, Aunt Winnie's brother who had the fruit farm upstate.

Steve knew it had been a long time since Bucky and his family had seen most of their relatives, thanks to Mr. Barnes's stubborn pride. Now that he had work, and a good job too, as manager at Loeser's, maybe life could be a little easier for Bucky and his family.

He caught Bucky's eye across the room and mouthed the words, "Happy birthday."

November 1934

Bucky moved to block the wind and Steve hunched over his sketchbook, pencil flying. He was trying to capture the shades of the lowering sky behind the battleship, with the men crawling all over her like ants.

"Swell day you picked for this," Bucky grumbled half-heartedly.

"Tell it to Sweeny," Steve murmured. He was in a hurry, wanting to move on before someone found them, and get home before dark.

"We're getting a squall," Bucky warned, peering out across the bay.

"Snow or rain?"

"Snow, by the looks of it."

Finally Steve jumped up, tucking his pencils in his pocket, and his sketchbook under his coat. Forgetting they were in a 'Restricted Area' they crossed the road heading for another shed, looking for more ships.

"Hoy!" came a shout. "Heave ho, there!"

"Dang it!" Bucky bolted, Steve on his heels. And the snowstorm closed around them.

The snow was half sleet, and thick enough that the boys couldn't see more than ten feet. Steve stumbled over something, fell, picked himself up. A gust of wind drove the little needles of ice into his face.

Wait. They'd been running with the wind on their left. Hadn't they? He turned, trying to cup his hand over his face. "Bucky!" he yelled. "Buck, where are you?!"

Off to his right, he could make out the dark shape of a boatshed, and figured he'd better duck into the lee of it, until the storm blew over. He staggered, head down, fighting the wind. Gosh, the ground was slippery.

A sudden shower fell on him, and he stopped, peering into the gloom. The snow was white, but somehow everything seemed dark. There was a sound of water, waves slapping roughly against a pier. He must be going the wrong way.

He turned back, hunching his shoulders, the cold air starting to make his lungs hurt. Another gust of wind caught him, he staggered, stepped on a patch of ice, and fell.

Ugh. Now he was covered in icy slush. His teeth were really chattering now. "Bucky," he called. "Bucky!"

He picked himself up again, more slowly this time. Then he crouched down, back to the wind, trying to stay warm. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Buck-eeey!" It surprised him how much strength that took.

Now he knelt, hunched over, coughing. He felt weak and tired. He was so cold, so… cold. Or was he?

He started awake at a voice. "Steve! Oh, God. Steve! Stevie, wake up."

Arms under him, lifting him. Strong. Bucky.

"Buck," he mumbled, rested his head on his friend's shoulder.

"Stevie. Listen you gotta stay awake gotta listen to me get you home." Bucky's rambling stopped suddenly. "Aunt Sarah. Oh, God, what am I gonna do?"

Steve could make out the line of his jaw, the clouds formed by Bucky's breath. "S'okay, Buck," he murmured. "M'fine."

Bucky looped Steve's arm around his neck, then stood, cradling his friend against his chest. "You won't be if I don't get you home."

There followed a confusing blur of voices, jostling, lights, dark, a ride in a car, and finally his mother's face, and the enveloping warmth of home.

He was shivering again, so hard. And, gosh his chest hurt.

The world blurred again. He was cold, hot, cold. Coughing, couldn't stop coughing. So hot, so thirsty. He heard his mother's voice, Bucky's. He tried to ask for water, but started coughing again.

Bucky's face. Cool water sliding down his throat.

His chest hurt. Hurt so bad. He couldn't breathe. Could not breathe. _Can't breathe!_

"Breathe. C'mon, Stevie. Just breathe." Was that Bucky? Or could it be his father, home from the war at last? He tried to call out, but only began to cough.

At some point he drifted off into a blessed darkness.

He awoke slowly, enjoying the peace and quiet. Opening his eyes, he took a few careful breaths. Okay, that worked, though the cough lurked close to the surface. Slowly he turned his head to check the time on his mother's alarm clock. He blinked, a trifle surprised.

Bucky slept beside him, on top of the blankets and fully dressed. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair in disarray, and the dark smudges under his eyes were accentuated by his pale face. His head was tilted as if he'd been listening to Steve's breathing.

For some reason Steve found himself smiling. "Buck," he murmured.

The other boy did not stir. Steve was weak as a kitten, but he managed to reach across to pat Bucky's cheek with a shaky hand. Bucky stirred, putting up his own hand to cover Steve's. He blinked awake, and stared into Steve's face.

"Hey," Steve croaked, and immediately took a coughing fit.

"Good gosh!" Bucky blurted, sitting up so fast he almost fell off the bed. He snatched a glass off the nightstand, the water sloshing dangerously. Sliding one arm under Steve's shoulders, he helped him sit up, then held the glass to his lips for him to drink.

But Bucky's hand was shaking so badly, Steve finally summoned the strength to pull the glass away and drink by himself. When the cough was under control Bucky took the glass back and made to put it back on the nightstand, but fumbled and missed.

"Bucky?" came a worried, hoarse whisper from the doorway. Steve turned his head on Bucky's shoulder, to see his mother leaning against the doorframe. She looked, if anything, worse than Buck, and was just putting up her hand to hide a yawn.

She froze, hand in the air, mouth open. "Steve. Oh, Stevie." She flew to the bed, and held him so tight and cried into his hair and said over and over, "Oh, thank the dear Lord. Thank the Lord. Oh, thank the Lord."

The doctor came in, to peer down Steve's throat, shake his head, and smile.

Bucky, who had run off, came back with greetings and get-well wishes from his family.

Steve was happy, because they were, but he was also a tad confused, and very tired. He could see his mother drooping suddenly.

Bucky took charge. "Aunt Sarah, you're done in. You'd better take a nap before you get sick too, or something." He gently led her from the room, and Steve closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he could tell by the light that it was evening. Bucky was facing him, slouched back against the footboard. He smiled and moved to feel Steve's forehead.

"What happened?" Steve mumbled.

"Pneumonia. You had it pretty bad." The light in Bucky's eyes flickered. "We thought–" He looked down, then back at Steve, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "It's my fault. I didn't realise you weren't with me until I was almost at the gates." He sniffed, swiped his sleeve across his nose. "I wondered if you'd walked off the pier or something. My gosh."

"What about my sketchbook?" Steve asked suddenly.

Bucky made an odd noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah, pal. Finding you half-frozen and thinking you're dead, I'd have to remember your stupid sketchbook." He got up, and went over to Steve's cot in the corner; came back with the water stained, wrinkled pad of paper.

"What day is it?" Steve asked, slowly turning a couple ruined pages.

"Friday, the twenty-third. Yesterday was Thanksgiving."

Steve looked up, startled. "But we went to the Navy yard on Sunday."

"Yeah," Bucky said. "We did." He smiled suddenly. "Hope you'll be up for turkey dinner on Sunday. Mother's already started cooking. She sent over some chicken soup, whenever you're ready for it."

Steve nodded absently. He stopped flipping, stared for a moment, and tore a page out. "Here."

Bucky stared down at the paper held out to him. The swift, accurate lines depicting the battleship and the little figures of the men, swarming around her. The grey lowering clouds and angry water in the distance.

He looked back up at Steve, unable to speak.

"It'll just remind me how you saved my life," Steve said quietly.

Bucky's lips trembled and he turned away, standing abruptly. "You hungry?" he asked, then cleared his throat and repeated the question.

"Sure."

He turned back and ruffled Steve's hair. "I know what I'm giving thanks for now, pal."

Steve smiled. "Me too."

**Author's notes: The Strand, later renamed Bell Cinema, was a small theatre on Washington Avenue at Eastern Parkway. Now it's a grocery store.**  
**German:**  
**_Gern geschehen_****: You're welcome.**  
**Bucky sings lines from (what else) Duck Soup. (I had so much fun tracking down lines from that movie.)**  
**Loeser's Department Store was on Fulton Street, on the edge of downtown Brooklyn.**

**And no, I've never had pneumonia but I have been caught in a snowstorm and had some nasty colds and flu over the years. I try to build on my own experiences as much as possible throughout this story.**


	11. Chapter 11

_I want to dedicate this chapter to Grandpa and to the memory of my Grandma, both of whom lived those days (even if it was in small town farming Canada)._

**Hard Times**

February 1935

Steve had his homework spread out on the kitchen table, hard on his math problems, when someone knocked at the door. He glanced up, waiting. His mother was working later tonight—the hospital was short-staffed—so that was probably Bucky.

Sure enough his friend came in, brushing snowflakes from his shoulders.

"Hey," Steve said, getting up and coming to take his coat.

"Steve." Bucky seemed in a hurry. "You're wanted on the phone at our place. Urgent. It's your mother."

In a moment he was shoving his feet into those big winter boots that had been his father's, running clumsily through the snow beside Bucky to the next-door building, forgetting even a coat.

Aunt Winnie was in the front hall, waiting for them. She had an odd look on her face.

Steve never could remember what followed, until he was sitting in the kitchen with Bucky beside him, and Aunt Winnie holding his hand, looking him in the eye.

"Your mother can't come home tonight. The doctors say she's sick."

"Tuberculosis?" Steve asked, the question automatic. Something he'd once asked his mother: _"But what if you catch it?"_

_"If I caught TB, I'd beat it over the head with a club."_ Then the look she got when thinking about her patients, some of them just kids.

"Yes, dear. I'm afraid so."

He thought he heard Bucky gasp, but he remembered that he hadn't finished his homework. His mother wouldn't be happy about that. He got up. "Need to finish my homework," he said, and wandered out of the room.

He was pulling on his boots, when he heard Bucky ask, "Need some help with that physics paper?"

"Sure," he answered, but the word tasted funny.

They ate cold sandwiches at the Rogers' kitchen table, the two of them briefly engaging in the age-old mayo vs. mustard debate.

"Yellow's for cowards," Bucky said.

"What about white with fear?" Steve countered.

But the façade broke down, when Steve went to get ready for bed. He went into the bedroom, stared for a long moment at his mother's big bed, before walking over and lying down. He pressed his face into the pillow, catching the scent of her: disinfectant, flowers, food.

The fear rose in him. He shoved it back. _"…I'd beat it over the head with a club."_

_Beat it for good, Mam,_ he wanted to say. _Beat it for all those kids and folks at the hospital._

He woke with a start, in the darkness. Someone slept behind him, someone strong and warm who had an arm draped protectively over him. Steve closed his eyes again and let himself imagine they were on the living room floor and his mother was asleep in the next room.

May 1936

Steve eased the door shut behind him, and sighed. Bucky was sitting on the steps and Steve passed him his mug of coffee without a word, before slipping back inside for another.

His mother would give him a hiding if she knew—she probably did know—but it was one of the only things that got him going at this un-earthly hour of the morning. And Bucky had a nose like a bloodhound for the stuff.

At least she was home, though she slept enough to scare her son. And that cough made him shudder. The doctors had declared her 'well' months ago. But lately…

Steve gave his head a sharp shake, and leaned on the railing, breathing in the steam from his drink.

Bucky drained the last drops from his mug, sighed, and stretched. "Better finish up, pal. Remember we got two extra streets this morning."

They rinsed their mugs at the sink and headed back out into the morning chill. Steve never understood why Bucky drank coffee, he had enough energy without it. Steve hated getting up this early, but once he was outside, focussed on the job, it wasn't so bad.

The work was something to be proud of too, delivery boys, not simple newsies on a street corner. The boys would work opposite sides of each street, whoever finished first coming across to help the other. Steve took the right, Bucky took the left, set in stone. Without the actual stone.

They were on the tenth street, Bucky well behind him since Steve only had three on this block, the last three, when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head.

A faint whimper.

He turned. An alley cut between two houses, still in shadow. He stepped closer, squinting, gripping the strap of his paper bag.

Again there came a little sound, like a terrified animal. Steve frowned and stepped into the alley.

An arm wrapped around his neck, a hand covered his mouth, and he was thrown to the ground. Someone sat on his back, driving most of the breath out of him.

"Give me what you got," a hoarse voice demanded.

"Got nothin'," Steve gasped.

The man, or young man—he wasn't very big—swore several times. "Come on, kid, you gotta gimme something."

"What for?"

A hand slammed the back of his head, cracking his chin against the paving stones. He tasted blood.

"Nuff o'that, punk. I'll shake it outta you then." There was something almost familiar about the voice, Steve realized, and he tried to twist around to see his assailant's face. Then he heard two quick steps and the boy on him gasped as someone rammed him.

A hand on his shoulder hauled Steve to his feet. "Come on," Bucky said. He gestured to his own chin. "Aunt Sarah's not going to be happy about that cut." He glanced past Steve and frowned.

"Hey."

Steve turned to see his would-be mugger staring at them.

The boy barked a laugh. "Should have known. If it isn't Buck and his little pal. Just my luck."

"Gus?" Bucky said, wondering. "Gus Tracey." He stepped forward, putting his hand out, happy to greet an old friend. The two of them had been training partners at the fight club since high-school started, until last fall when Gus's family had moved. Steve could only imagine how he'd ended up on the streets.

Gus's hands stayed at his sides, curling into fists. He swore at Bucky.

There was an awkward frozen moment, before Gus rushed Bucky, and Steve saw him go down, too shocked to take in the situation.

Steve dropped his bag and dove on top of Gus. He got a hold on his right wrist with both hands, and Gus rolled, squashing Steve heavily.

Steve got a glimpse of Bucky, springing to his feet, before a fist slammed his cheek. He saw stars. Dang, he'd forgotten Gus was a lefty.

Another punch, before he heard Bucky yell and tackle Gus.

From the eye that was not beginning to swell, Steve saw the two of them stand, facing each other like they had so many times in the ring.

"You don't have to do this," Bucky said, his voice gentle, almost pleading.

Gus did not answer, except to rush Bucky again. This time Buck was ready.

Steve sat up, putting a hand to his face. Yeah, his mother would not be happy.

He scrambled back against the wall and crouched there, feeling oddly detached from the fight. If Buck needed his help, he'd give it, but this was really between Gus and him.

This was clearly no simple boxing match. Gus was out for blood and Steve had a hard time staying still. Both were too good for this to end with a single punch and the dance seemed to go on and on. Dodge, swing, dodge, swing, maybe land half of it, dodge, swing.

Finally Gus tripped Buck and they went down, wrestling now, rolling over, first one on top and then the other.

"Good heavens, what is going on out there?" someone shouted, and Steve looked up to see a woman peering out an upstairs window overlooking the alley.

He opened his mouth, and Bucky screamed. Well, not exactly screamed, more like yelped, but that was a lot for him.

Steve jerked his gaze back to the fight, to see Gus starting to rise to his feet, before Buck, still lying on the ground, twisted and kicked out one foot. Nailed him right between the legs.

Gus doubled over, almost collapsing, and Steve scrambled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his face and head.

"You boys just wait!" shouted the woman. "Donny?" she called to someone inside. "Get out there and break up a fight."

With a great effort, Gus pulled himself together, and hobbled off down the alley. Steve knelt by Bucky's side, more worried about his friend than anything.

Buck's eyes were closed, his face gone pale. "Think he broke my arm," he murmured, trying not to move even his lips. "Heard something pop. Hurts like the devil."

He opened his eyes and stared at Steve. "I didn't want to hurt him."

"I know," Steve said softly. He pulled off his jacket.

"Left," Buck said, slowly sitting up.

"We gotta get out of here," Steve whispered.

Bucky nodded, lips pressed in a thin line.

Without another word, they fashioned a sling for the injured arm, and Steve pulled his friend up. He collected their paper bags, slinging one over each shoulder.

Of course the moment they stepped into the street, the front door of the one house flew open and a burly red-faced man came charging out. "Alright," he demanded. "What are you boys doin', raising Cain and waking people at this hour?"

He stopped, staring at the boys, who stared back. Some of his bluster faded. "You hurt?" he asked, nodding at Bucky.

"Probably broke his arm, sir," Steve said quietly. He ignored Bucky's glare. "Fella jumped me in the alley, and he… helped me out."

He turned to whisper in Bucky's ear. "Let him take you to the hospital. I'll finish the papers. Only two streets, plus the extra. I'll be fine." He gestured to his face, and made a painful attempt at a smile. "Long as I don't run into any cops."

"Just tell 'em you met Jack Dempsey in an alley," Bucky answered, but there was no joking twinkle in his eye. Only that pained twist to his lips.

Steve squeezed his good arm, in silent understanding.


	12. Chapter 12

**'All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.'**  
**-Abraham Lincoln**

**End of the Line**

October 21, 1936

_"…Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying_

_And kneel and say an 'Ave' there for me. _

_And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me_

_And all my grave shall warmer sweeter be…"_

Rebecca's voice soared to the rafters of the church, somehow carrying Steve's leaden heart with it. Bucky's hand was steady on his shoulder.

_"For you will bend and tell me that you love me_

_And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me."_

The rest of the service was a blur, until he was standing at the graveside, pressing his hand against the coffin, desperate for the solidness of the wood. He closed his eyes, saw her laughing, the sun catching her hair.

_"…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…"_

Only when he was alone did he stoop and kiss the bare, fresh earth. Step to the next stone, run his fingers over the letters.

He walked home in the evening light, chest and head and eyes aching, barely registering when Bucky appeared at his side. Church bells chimed the hour as they turned onto their old street, and Bucky gently bumped his shoulder against Steve's.

"We looked for you after," he said. "The folks wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery."

They climbed the stairs, Steve's legs feeling like lead. "Kinda wanted to be alone," he mumbled.

"How was it?"

"Was okay. She's next to Dad." The lump in Steve's throat swelled, at the thought of his parents… both gone now. He brushed his hand across his face.

"I was gonna ask…" Buck started.

"I know what you're gonna say, Buck. I just…" He stopped in front of his apartment door, feeling in his coat pocket for the key. He couldn't think about that now. Nothing made sense.

"We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fun." There was a pleading note in Bucky's voice. "All you gotta do is shine my shoes… Maybe take out the trash." He noticed Steve fumbling and turned to kick aside a stray brick on the ground. He scooped up the key and offered it to Steve, moving close enough that Steve had to tilt his head back to look up at his friend. "Come on."

Steve took the key, stared at it. He hardly knew what he was doing, except to say what he always said. _I'm fine._ He raised his head.

"Thank you, Buck. But I can get by on my own."

"The thing is… you don't have to." Bucky's solid hand gripped his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. "I'm with you to the end of the line, pal."

Steve looked up at him, his mouth curving in a reluctant smile. Maybe…

"Don't be such a stubborn punk, laddie boy," Buck added, and Steve broke. More than anything he wanted his mother, but she was gone. He wanted his father, but he was gone. He wanted Bucky… And Bucky was right here. Bucky was all he had.

Bucky's arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close, but he didn't try to speak. Steve buried his head in Bucky's chest and cried.

January 1937

They stood on the corner of West 44th and 8th, Steve hunching his shoulders against a swirl of wet snow. Bucky buried his hands in his coat pockets, shooting Steve a worried look. "Button your coat, will ya?"

Stubbornly, Steve stared off down the street, pretending not to have heard his friend. He looked back, in time to see Bucky stepping out to dodge across the street.

Almost in slow motion, he saw two cars going opposite directions swerve at something he couldn't see. They swerved back, one brushing Bucky aside like a giant hand. He fell, sprawling across the pavement, a truck looming over him.

"Buck!" The word was a whisper, lodged in Steve's throat. His hands were stretched out, reaching uselessly, helpless to stop his brother, the only person he had left in the world, from being crushed. In that moment the one thought crossing his mind was, _Why didn't I button up my coat?_

"Bucky!" The scream wrenched out of him as Bucky rolled, flipping to his feet, and arching his back away from the side of the truck, which shot past in a squeal of brakes.

Heedless of danger to himself, Steve bolted into the street, following Bucky to the opposite sidewalk.

"Holy cow," Bucky said, catching his breath. He gave himself a shake, and turned to Steve, vainly brushing at the filthy slush on his pants. "So much for– You 'kay?"

Steve couldn't catch his breath. His heart was racing, the iron band tightening around his chest. In a detached part of his mind he knew that this was the worst attack he'd had in ages. He slumped forward, until something caught him, propped him against a wall.

Someone gripped his hand. "Steve, listen to me. Just breathe. Okay?" His hand was resting against something warm and solid, rising and falling steadily. "Breathe… Breathe… Breathe…"

He concentrated on the voice, the rhythm; found the room for one breath and then another and another.

Finally, he looked up into Bucky's dark eyes. One hand gripped his shoulder, the other held Steve's hand against his chest. "Easy, pal. It's alright."

Under his palm Steve could feel Bucky heart beating. _It's okay. He's here, I'm here. We're okay._

"Dear God," he said hoarsely, slumping forward against his friend. Weakly, he wrapped his other arm around Bucky's neck.

"Don't you _ever_ do something stupid like that again. I can't lose you, too, Buck. God knows I can't."

Bucky hugged him back, whispering in his ear, "I promised I'd be here to the end of the line, Stevie." Then he stood, pulling Steve to his feet. "Ain't getting rid of me that easy. Too tough." He grinned and rapped his knuckles against his skull. "Let's head home, pal."

**Author's notes: I hope I did that scene after the funeral justice. Turning movie scenes into stories is actually not easy.**  
**You might be wondering why I didn't include more from right before Sarah died. Two reasons: one, I didn't have time to do adequate research into TB, and two, Steve has two blank chunks in his memory on each side of that moment with Bucky the day of the funeral. Some things are better forgotten.**  
**My favorite version of Danny Boy is by Celtic Woman. It's on my Steve&Bucky playlist.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Sorry I haven't posted in so long. Hope this is worth it. **

**Colors of Life**

**April 1937**

The weight on his chest had not left in the night. Who was he kidding? It never left.

Steve lay still, listened to himself breathe, watched the odd little swirls of light, or whatever, behind his eyelids.

He realized Bucky was up, the smell of bacon and pancakes reached his nose. He turned his head into the pillow, hating the darkness, yet loath to leave its familiarity.

He opened his eyes. Across the room, his drawing board stared back. A charcoal of a single winter tree, naked against the sky. The world itself was reflected in his art; all shades of grey. He had yet to touch the box of beautiful colors Buck had given him for Christmas.

He rolled over, back to the room, buried his face in the back of the couch. There was the ache, the one that pressed hotly at his throat, the back of his eyes. Emotion was a kind of relief now, but no tears came.

Vacantly, he wondered if there was such a thing as _nothing._

"Steve. Come on, wake up." A hand pulled gently at his shoulder, coaxing him to turn over.

"Not now, Buck," he mumbled. "Please, not now."

"Fine," Bucky said, and picked Steve off the couch, blankets and all, and deposited him on the floor.

"Ugh," Steve groaned, struggling with the blankets. "Jerk. Stop it."

"No. You need to get up. There's something you gotta see. Come on, Steve."

He looked up at that pleading note in Bucky's voice.

"Just get dressed and come with me. Please."

Those dark eyes, so dang hopeful. Suddenly he didn't have the energy to argue. "Sure. Fine." This seemed to be something more than those walks Bucky dragged him out for most evenings, which thankfully never lasted long. They always ended up coming back to their apartment and falling asleep on the couch. Which was really all Steve wanted to do.

He always woke again, though, to realise that Bucky had tucked him in and left some food on the nearby table, just in case he got…

Steve wandered back into the main room, buttoning his shirt.

"You hungry?" Bucky asked, pausing in pulling his shoes on. "Or can we eat when we get back?"

Steve shrugged. It hardly mattered.

Buck jerked his head at a knapsack on the floor. "Got your drawing stuff. You'll want it, trust me."

What the heck? _Trust me…_

Head down, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, Steve trudged after Buck. Most of the snow was gone and the sidewalks looked particularly filthy today.

They boarded a bus, Steve still not asking where they were going.

When they stepped off, a gust of sea breeze tore at Steve's hair, yanking his head up. He squinted suddenly, the morning sun behind him glinting off the water. He knew where they were: Shore Road Park. But why?

Ahead, close to the water, a small crowd had gathered, the wind snatching their shouts and twisting them away.

"They're still here!" Bucky exclaimed. "Come on!" Steve followed, curious now, in spite of himself.

They dodged around the crowd and Bucky swung up to perch on the seawall. Steve scrambled after him.

With the combination of wind and sun and water, it took him a few moments to figure out what he was seeing. When he did, he might have fallen off the wall if Bucky hadn't had a grip on his arm.

Probably a dozen killer whales frolicked in the bay, water flying, their massive bodies so oddly graceful.

Steve sat, stunned, breathless with wonder. His brain could form no coherent thought, he only opened his eyes as wide as he could.

The pod moved closer to land, still diving and slapping the water with their tails, then hoisting themselves above the waves to crash down again.

One came quite close to where Steve and Bucky perched, leaping halfway out of the water, twisting around, to flop into the water on its back. The boys were wet with the spray, and Steve laughed suddenly, wiping the drops off his face.

He felt Buck's arm around his neck, tasted the salt, took a breath of bracing air. He could feel, without looking, his grin mirrored on Bucky's face.

"Wish you could be out there with them, huh?" Bucky called.

"Yeah," he murmured.

They stayed there for hours, Steve not caring that they were missing church; this was sanctuary enough. When the whales finally moved off toward Staten Island, the two young men sat in the sunshine for a while, breathing in tandem.

It wasn't until they got back to their apartment, that Steve remembered his sketchbook. He picked up the bag Bucky had thrown his things into, and sat at his drawing table.

Buck was whistling as he worked, reheating breakfast. Steve's stomach growled, but he wanted to capture the whales while they were still fresh in his mind. He pulled out a pad of paper, and two boxes of pencils. One: his regular sketching set, worn to half their original length, and second: the colored ones.

He hesitated, laid Buck's gift aside. Maybe tomorrow.

And then he had a pencil in his hand, flying over the paper, trying to reproduce the huge graceful bodies, the sun-glint on the waves, a million diamond drops.

He had the outlines, when Bucky nudged his elbow with a plate. "Eat," he commanded.

Steve looked up at him, then, as his nose caught the smell of the bacon, laid the pencil down without protest. Bucky went back to the kitchen table and sat, inhaling his food. There was a comfortable silence.

It took him maybe an hour to finish the drawing. He was sitting, chin in his hand, staring at it when he felt Bucky behind him.

"Thanks," Steve said quietly.

He heard Buck's breath catch, before his hands landed on Steve's shoulders. They stayed that way for a long while.

* * *

July 1937

_My darling laddie boy,_

_Happy birthday, and please cry if you need to. Just don't let me ruin your day._

_I pray I've said everything a mother should say to her only son, about God, about life, about girls._

_You're so much like your father, a born fighter, a born protector, with heart enough for an army. But I pray I have also taught you how to be gentle, how to care. _

_Son, I want you to remember this above all else. When you fight, don't do it because you hate your enemies. Fight for the love of your friends. _

_Be brave, be strong. Stand up for your beliefs. _

_And keep working on your art. Go to college. It mightn't make much money, but follow your dreams whenever you can. Hear me, laddie boy?_

_Someday you'll remember me and smile without crying. Sure, and when we see each other again, we'll be a family. Bucky will look out for you. They'll take care of you. Only family we got._

_Don't stop living. Don't stop loving. _

_Love, Mama_

Steve closed his eyes, and let his head fall back, laying the tri-folded paper on his chest. The grass was soft, the longer blades tickling his face. Behind his eyelids he could see her, standing in the sunlight, the breeze catching her skirt, grabbing her straw hat with one hand, laughing down at him.

He opened his eyes, and saw only a blurred pool of light, warmth, but no smile, no laughter. Alone on the grassy hillside, he rolled over and buried his face in his arms.

When the tears finally stopped, he sat up, hunted through his pockets for a handkerchief. Something white fluttered into the grass and he twisted around in surprise. Bucky, in dirty overalls and a short-sleeved shirt, the reflection of the sky making his eyes light, his crooked grin…

Guiltily, Steve turned away, mopped his face, blew his nose. Waited for Bucky to burst out with whatever grand news he had now.

Still without speaking, Bucky sank down beside him, and as the quiet stretched out, Steve felt the hard knot inside him undo itself.

He had visited the cousin's farm a couple times before, and always thought that if Bucky hadn't been there, it would have been dull as ditch water. But in moments like this, he could appreciate the stillness, the unhurried pace.

"That was right before she went back to the hospital," Bucky said, just above a whisper. "Late one night, I remember you fell asleep and she asked me… Made me promise to give it to you on your birthday."

Steve nodded his thanks. Bucky pulled his knees up to his chest, rested his chin on them.

A breeze ruffled their hair, Steve took a few deep breaths, smelled cut hay, earth. From the farm behind them, he heard shouts, whooping, an engine's roar, dogs barking.

Bucky stirred, lifted his head. "Thomas brought his new motorcycle home," he said, not able to disguise his excitement.

Steve scrambled to his feet. "You rode it yet?" He put out his hand, and Bucky almost pulled him down again.

"Yeah, but now we gotta teach you how."

Steve frowned up at him. "Me? Are you sure that's smart?"

Bucky laughed now, flung an arm around his neck. "Never know when you might need the skill."

"Yeah, but it's you having _any_ skills that I'm worried about."

He had to admit though, that zooming down a country lane, the wind in his face, Bucky's hands firmly over his, was definitely the cat's pajamas. At least until they took a sharp corner and came face-to-face with a farmer's wagon, and _Bucky_ put them in the ditch.

**Author's notes: **

**"The quickest way for anyone to reach the sun and the light of day is not to run west, chasing after the setting sun, but to head east, plunging into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise." ― Gerald L. Sittser**

**"The best friends know when to drag you out into the light. They also know when to sit with you in the darkness." - Anna Preston**

**There was supposed to be a lot more about Bucky teaching Steve to drive a motorcycle, but that ended up going in a different direction. Still, thanks to Griselda_Banks for the inspiration.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Those Were the Nights**

September 1938

With a groaning sigh, Steve sat back, laying his pencil down and rubbing his eyes. Gosh, inking in these magazine illustrations was a job. He got up and shambled across the living room—which doubled as his bedroom—to the kitchen, glancing at the clock as he passed. Half-past-eleven. Bucky should get home soon.

He got a Coke from the icebox, popped the top, took a few gulps. He leaned against the counter, savouring it, staring out at the street lights and passing taxis. Typical Saturday night. He was always glad their apartment faced the street, instead of another brick wall. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the lights. Pretty. Cozy.

He supposed he should get back to work. Four more pictures to get done for Monday and he disliked working on Sundays. Well, he shouldn't complain about the work, he reminded himself, as he headed back to his easel. It was all part of keeping this roof over his and Buck's heads; especially as he had classes five days a week.

Feet sounded in the hallway, someone fumbled with a key, and Bucky came in, dripping, but smiling. He tossed his hat and coat on the hook and kicked off his overshoes.

"Well, old boy," he said, bending down to remove his shoes. "We had a gay old time."

"Got Minna home alright?" Steve asked, sitting forward, propping his elbows on his knees.

"Yep." With a long sigh, Bucky threw himself down on the couch, and stretched out, folding his hands behind his head. "Wow, that girl can _dance._ And the plumbing was the cat's pajamas." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Just the cat's pajamas, pal. Cat's pajamas."

Without looking away, Steve fumbled for his sketchbook on the desk. As Bucky rambled on, describing the club, the dances, the music, Steve's pencil moved swiftly over the page, capturing the lipstick smear still visible on his jawline, his now undone tie, his hair rumpled up, his blissfully exhausted expression, those long legs now propped up and still.

_'I could have danced all night'_ he wrote underneath. Grinning quietly, he stood and stretched to pin it to the wall above his drawing board.

"Want anything before you hit the sack?" he asked, heading back to the kitchen.

"Any of your ginger crinkles left?"

"Yep." Steve grabbed a plate, filled it with cookies and poured two glasses of milk. As he came back, he saw Bucky pulling a paper off the wall.

"Hey–"

Bucky crumpled it in his hands, then held it above his head as Steve lunged at him. "Thought I told you to stop sticking up scrawls of me."

"Aw, come on, your girlfriends love 'em." Steve jumped, missed, and fell against Buck. Bucky jumped back and made a beeline for the bedroom, Steve hot on his heels. As he came through the doorway, a pillow caught Steve smack in the face. He staggered back, cracking his head on the door jam in the process.

"Bucky!" he snapped, losing patience.

"Gimmie a minute," was the cheerful reply. Buck tossed the ball of paper out the window and slammed down the sash. "There." He turned back, dusting his hands together. "Stevie? You 'kay?"

Angrily, Steve turned and stalked away. He thumped down at his desk, and hunched over the next drawing.

He pointedly ignored Bucky the whole time his friend was preparing for bed, until he paused behind him.

"Stick up whatever you want, punk."

Steve really didn't want to answer, but the word came anyway. "Jerk."

"Good luck burning the midnight oil."

"Go burn yourself," he growled, with a lot less vehemence. He could hear Bucky smirking even after he'd shut the door.

* * *

May 1939

"Hey, Ma," Bucky called as they came in. "We're home." Over his mother's protest: _"Don't call me Ma!"_ from the kitchen, he added, "And we picked up a couple slick chicks on the way."

Lizzy smacked him with her purse. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Anna asked, shrugging out of her coat. She smiled gratefully when Steve helped her.

Rebecca came out of the kitchen, face flushed and shining, to hug her brothers.

"Frank's one lucky guy," Steve said, grinning at her.

She laughed and squeezed his hand, the little diamond on her finger catching the light. "Well, I don't think it would have ever happened without your help."

Frank Procter was the same age as Steve, but for a while had been too shy to ask Becca out. Then in the boys' senior year, when she'd started to become Steve's regular 'date', Frank had dredged up the courage before the Christmas dance, and well… Steve had been to one dance since, when Anna's date bailed on her the day of.

Not that he minded. The girls would go dance with all the nice fellows and Steve would wind up in a corner, with his little pocket sketchpad, trying to catch the swirl of skirts and happy faces.

Anna turned on the radio in the sitting room and Bucky grabbed his sister's hand for a vigorous version of a waltz. As they finished—Steve and the other girls applauding—Becca spun out of his arms, laughing. "You're such a jitterbug."

"Save a dance for me," Frank called, putting his head in, and she ran to kiss him, making the others groan.

"Re-_becca!"_ came Aunt Margarita's shrill call from the kitchen. "Anna? E_liza_-beth! Come and help your mother!"

The dinner table was crowded that night, for the first family supper in the Barnes' new home. They dug into plates piled high with food, which made the Depression days seem like a distant memory. After dessert, everyone gathered in the sitting room to listen to the radio and make toasts and tell stories. Steve felt his ears get hot every time he spotted his drawing of Brooklyn Bridge hanging on the wall. Everyone danced, except Steve, and Rebecca sang, and the fire in the hearth burned cheerfully.

Once or twice, when Steve glanced up from his quiet corner, he half-expected to see Sarah Rogers's face smiling at him from the doorway or across the room. Now, though, he only held the memories close, and dove back into _The Hobbit. _He had started reading the book last week, but Bucky had been stealing it and taking it to work to read on his lunch break. He could tell how far Buck had gotten, thanks to the breadcrumbs in the pages. Good, he hadn't passed Steve.

He felt eyes on him, glanced up. Bucky, frowning, asking with his eyebrows, _Why the heck aren't you partying?_ Steve held up the book, the frown changed to a knowing grin.

_Punk,_ Buck mouthed.

_Jerk._

**Author's notes: Have to thank the Hunter Brothers for this title.**

**Words from the day:  
****Plumbing: trumpeter in a jazz band**  
**Jitterbug: person who HAS to get up and dance, esp. when listening to swing music**

**The Hobbit was published in 1937, and from the beginning, I loved the idea of Steve reading it. I actually had quite an internal argument about whether he should be reading it or another book here, but The Hobbit won out.**


	15. Chapter 15

**What Goes Around...**

December 1940

Steve pulled the blanket over his head, and waited for the door to shut behind Bucky, so he could go back to sleep. He knew Buck was pulling on his overshoes… now grabbing his lunch pail… and then Steve opened his eyes.

Was Buck…? He heard it again, a loud _ker-choo!_ Sniffling, nose blowing as Bucky went out the door.

Slowly Steve pushed the blanket aside and propped himself up on his elbows to stare at the closed front door. It had been a week since Bucky got that cold. Was he _still_ fighting it? Granted, the weather had been wild and wet, and his latest job down at the docks had him out in it all.

Frowning, Steve stared at the ceiling and recalled Bucky coughing, late last night when he should have been asleep. _Dang._ It wasn't like Steve really needed to worry, but Bucky so rarely fell ill, it was… unsettling. And there was always the nasty possibility of missing work, and so falling behind in things like rent, and Steve's doctor's bills from last month.

Steve sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He had been up late last night, finishing two posters, one for a carnival, the other for a Christmas concert, and then he had two extra classes today, since he was still trying to catch up, and he had to take a load of washing down to Mrs. Yamamoto on the second floor… _Sure, mam, I could use a bit of your help right about now._

That was a cold, drizzly day. Steve kept glancing out the window of his classroom, and missing what the professor was saying. When he stopped at the advertising agent's office, on his way home, he rashly accepted three more commissions, all to be completed before the end of the week. And today was Wednesday.

He actually wasn't sure whether to smile or cry when Buck stumbled in the door, half-an-hour late, supper getting cool on the stove. He was wet to the skin underneath his greatcoat, and shivering uncontrollably.

Bucky tried to grin at his friend, as Steve forced him into a chair and knelt to pull off his shoes and socks. "If Hell-l-l was in th'Arctic, th-th-th-that's where I was today. G-g-g-good gosh."

Only when he was bundled up in bed, with three cups of hot mint tea in him, and a plateful of beef stew, did Bucky stop shivering.

"For crying out loud," he said, sounding more like himself as he pulled up the blankets, "go to bed yourself. I'll be fine in the morning." He was asleep as soon as his eyes shut.

Steve slipped back into the living room, but he didn't sleep. There was too much work to do.

By the morning, Bucky was running a fever, to go with a stuffed nose and a ripping headache. After running down to the Yamamoto's to tell Mr. Yam, who worked with Buck, that he would not be in today, Steve sat at his side bathing his forehead with a cool cloth, praying this malady would move fast. Bucky kept trying to get up to go to work, and every time Steve pushed him back down. And every time Buck muttered, "Who made you the boss?"

Finally he drifted into a hazy sleep, making feeble complaints whenever Steve woke him with an order to drink some water.

The fever did not drop, but held steady through the day. As evening fell, Steve found it was actually climbing. He knew from experience that the breaking point would be sometime that night. Bucky was strong, and, _please God,_ this shouldn't linger. They certainly couldn't afford more doctor's bills.

He found that reading aloud, as Bucky often did for him, or describing what he was sketching, kept Buck from tossing and turning. When Steve's voice faltered over 'Damon and Pythias' in his mother's old _Book of Legends,_ the one she had read to them several times, a hot hand fumbled out from the blankets and rested on his knee.

The evening wore into night. They often used candles to cut down on electricity costs, and Steve's was burning low, as he slumped wearily forward to lay his head on the pillow near Bucky's, just for a moment…

He jerked awake to something poking his shoulder, and found Bucky in the morning light looking like he'd been through hell, but awake and kicking.

"Come on, nurse. Sleeping on the job, tsk, tsk. I'm dry as the Sahara."

Even in his weariness and worry, Steve found the role reversal amusing. Personally, he thought he had a much nicer bedside manner than Bucky did. Heck, he even ran down to Buck's favorite pub on the corner for a pint of Hamm's, when his cranky patient insisted he couldn't take another drop of Adam's ale.

Through it all, Steve said nothing about his work, but it was mid-afternoon before he had time to sit down at his drawing board. He already had several sketches, but here was where the real work began. He shuffled through the pages, counting. Five, _six_ advertising designs, to be handed in Monday morning. But if they were good enough, they could easily make up for one of Bucky's missed workdays. For crying out loud, there went any _sleep._

When Bucky got home from his Saturday night date, he found Steve slumped over on his desk, dead to the world. Steve woke up the next morning in Bucky's bed, with a headache, a frog in his throat, and one order: "Take those ads to Mr. Hawthorne first thing Monday morning."

Bucky shook his head, a fond smile on his lips. "You little punk. How many time do I have to tell you not to hang around sick people?"

Steve muttered something uncomplimentary, and pulled the quilt over his head.

* * *

April 1941

Steve was tired. And Bucky, who had finished drying his hands on the roller towel, was reaching for his jacket.

Steve repressed a sigh. He had hoped for one of those quiet evenings lying around with a sketchpad, Bucky with a book, maybe reading aloud.

"Have fun," Steve said to Bucky's back, before heading for his drawing table. Imagine his surprise, when a hand grasped his arm, towing him in the opposite direction.

"You're having fun _with_ me, pal," Bucky said firmly. "Or else it won't _be_ fun." And when he turned on that brilliant crooked grin, how could Steve say 'no'? Especially after Alice Cooper had dumped him a week ago, and Bucky still wasn't really over it; as much as he tried to pretend he was.

So, even though there was work to be done, and commissions to fill, Steve let Bucky tow him out the door.

Of course they ended up at Skinny's pub—Steve preferred his mother's Irish term—with a glass for Steve and a pint for Buck, listening to all the war news. At least until the fight broke out.

It was Bucky who caught the angry, raised voices. Steve followed his gaze to about half-a-dozen men crowded at the front counter.

One voice rose above the others. "Well, ain't none of Hitler's men welcome here, so scram."

Steve's shoulders jerked straight, as he recognized the figure all the other men seemed to be glaring at. "Mr. Lovitz!" he exclaimed.

In a moment he was on his feet, hurrying across the room. "Hey, fellas, what's wrong? Mr. Lovitz." He nodded to the soda shop man, who had always treated his young customers with as much importance as any grown-ups.

The bespectacled, grey-haired man nodded back, but without quite meeting Steve's gaze. He had become old and frail since Steve last saw him. His hand on his glass was trembling.

"Who do you think you are?" A weasely black-bearded fellow stuck his face down at Steve. "Hey, Skinny," he called over his shoulder. "Didn't know you let kids in this place."

One of the others, a beefy, blond man, accidently/on purpose jostled Mr. Lovitz's arm, spilling his drink. And Steve saw red.

The next thing he knew, he and Bucky were out in the alleyway, fighting for their lives. There seemed to be twice as many men out here, and Steve tasted blood more than once.

A fist in the mouth, and Steve went down, caught his breath, hauled himself to his feet again.

A kick in the calf, he fell, got up.

A blow to the side of his head, and he reeled, the world going black with stars. As he lay on the pavement, Steve glimpsed Bucky standing over him, ducking and swinging with practiced grace. Then the world faded to only the pain in his head.

They limped home, Bucky half-carrying Steve, cursing his friend's impetuosity between his teeth.

"Why the heck you can't leave well enough alone, Steve, I'll never see," Buck was saying as he let Steve fall onto the couch.

Steve looked up at his best friend, his brother, his pal, his protector. Saw the love and admiration lurking behind the exasperation. Saw the bruises forming on his forehead, a swollen bloodied cheek, the blood on his knuckles.

"Someone had to stand up for him," Steve said. "If I hadn't, you would have."

"You're a punk," Bucky sighed. "The bravest, best punk I've ever met."

Smiling through his busted lip, Steve kicked Buck in the shin. "Go wash your face, jerk."


	16. Chapter 16

**War**

January 1942

Steve hardly tasted the food on his plate, and he missed most of the conversation that rose and fell around the Barnes' family dinner table.

The paper in his pocket seemed to burn him every time he shifted and heard it rustle.

In one month the whole world had changed. Or had it? Here they were, eating chicken dumplings ("Best in the universe!"), arguing over the Dodgers loss to the Yankees ("Wait 'til this year!"), teasing Lizzy about her admirer with the wooden leg ("Well at least he won't have to go fight, though he would if they let him.")… Hearing that, Steve had trouble swallowing.

The entire world was at war. All across Europe, to Africa, to China, to Japan, and now the U.S. Steve's father had _died_ to keep this from happening again. But Hitler; what could you do with a man like Hitler?

Steve and Bucky had had plenty of lively discussions in the evenings, more often at home in their apartment, after they got kicked out of a bar for the fifth time. They'd grown up with German and Jewish friends, and as the stories that trickled into the papers had grown steadily worse, Steve had become more and more certain that the U.S. was making a mistake trying to stay out of it.

Then the explosion of Pearl Harbour came, and Steve had been all set to run out and enlist, when Buck had stopped him with four words: "Wait 'til after Christmas?"

So they'd waited. Until now. And of course Buck would wait 'til everyone was done eating, he wouldn't want to ruin anyone's appetites. But Steve's was already ruined.

Everyone was lingering over their cake and ice cream, when Bucky sat back in his chair. Before he could clear his throat, Steve excused himself.

Out in the hall, Steve dropped into a chair, propped his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead on his clenched fists. He didn't want to hear this. But he would.

"So," Bucky said, then cleared his throat again. "I've joined the Army."

It came out in a rush and there was a stunned sort of silence, before…

"Oi!" That was Frank.

"James!" _Aunt Winnie._

"Oh, Bucky!" _Anna._

And in the quiet moment following the outburst: "Aye, son, aye."

Steve stared at the floor, unseeing. Uncle George would never be able to go, with his eyesight getting so bad over the last year. Of course he'd be proud of his son for signing up.

Frank's mother was Jewish, and still had family in the 'old country'. But with Becca expecting a baby and a good job with the recruitment agency, he wouldn't be going just yet.

And Steve thought of poor Mr. Yamamoto, who had been jailed, and accused, and torn away from his family, and the one time Steve had seen him since, he'd said he'd go fight them—his own countrymen—because he could not hate his new homeland for being afraid of him, he just wanted a chance to show them they didn't have to be.

Steve clenched his jaw, and pulled the paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, stared at the stamp in the corner: 4F. He got up, moved down the hall, tearing the paper with swift angry movements. So, what if he had weak lungs and a weak body and a weak heart? His mother hadn't thought so. She'd said he was as brave as his father. Shouldn't will count for something? All he wanted was to fight. For everyone who couldn't. For everyone out there who was hurting, or wounded, or broken by evil people who thought they were better than everyone else and destroyed anyone who dared to speak up.

The more men there were fighting, the sooner it would be over. Steve might not have much, but he had his life; he could give that. He'd give his blood to the last drop, because really, what did he have to lose?

Someone had to watch Buck's back, make sure he got home safe. And sure he'd miss Steve, but he'd have a way better life without having to take care of Steve for the rest of his days.

Steve slipped into the kitchen, keeping out of sight of the chattering folks in the next room, and grimly wet the handful of paper, mashing it beyond recognition, before dropping it in the dust bin.

For the first time since his mother died, Steve had a purpose, a goal. He liked the feeling. And he'd get there by hook… or by crook. He bit his lip, hesitating over what Sarah Rogers would think of _that_ idea.

_Sorry, Mama,_ he thought. _But I _have_ to. I hope you and Dad won't be too ashamed of me._

* * *

November 1942

Another cold, drizzly day, in a cold, drizzly week. Steve scuffed his shoes on the sidewalk, as he walked home from the bus stop. His stomach was full, thanks to Aunt Winnie, and he had a package under his arm that would keep him fed, for a few days at least. That woman knew how to dance around ration books.

But the loneliness of his empty apartment, could not be shaken. He hung up his coat, and bent over coughing. It was a few seconds, before he caught his breath. Gosh, he'd better not get sick again. No Buck to cover rent and bills with him now, though Buck sent most of his pay Steve's way.

Steve only used it when absolutely necessary, putting the rest aside in what he told Buck was '_your_ college fund'.

Steve shuffled into the kitchen, put away the food in the refrigerator, paused in the quiet. Next door, the baby was crying, up above it sounded like someone was banging two pot lids together, down stairs a couple of men argued. But his apartment was still, only the light above the sink on, the rest of the room in shadows.

With another sigh, Steve moved to the couch, switched on the table lamp, flopped down. He flipped open his sketchbook, which he'd taken tonight to get another sketch of little JB: James Benjamin Proctor. James for Frank's dad, and Benjamin for Uncle George's middle name. But everyone called him JB, and said he looked just like Bucky.

Steve wanted Buck's opinion on _that_.

Two things hit the floor, and Steve leaned down to see. He picked up an envelope, which pulled a smile across his face, and an old photograph.

The letter was from Bucky, of course, and here Steve had been thinking it was his week not to get any. He must have sent it with the others to his family, and someone had slipped it into Steve's notebook. But he examined the photo first.

He gave a little huff of surprise. He and Bucky, sitting in Buck's wagon on the sidewalk outside the Barnes' old house, legs dangling—at least Steve's were—they leaned into each other, Bucky's arm around Steve's shoulders.

A long moment staring, another long sigh, before he flipped it over. Written on the back in what was probably Aunt Winnie's hand: _Steve Rogers and James, May 1927._ Underneath that, in Becca's quicker script: _Steve, Found this in a box of old stuff. Thought you'd want to keep it. You were cute kids! And I remember you being monsters. Buck more than you, though. Ha, ha. _

Steve found himself smiling, as he leaned over to prop the photograph against the lamp. He was still smiling when he slit the envelope and pulled out Bucky's letter.

_Dear Steve,_

_Being so out in the middle of nowhere, it's hard to find any girls! Last night we had a good time though, with a movie and a dance. A whole lot of local girls came out to swing. I felt bad though. The callouses I've gotten are no joke! The Army has turned us into a bunch of groundhogs. _

_Worked a couple of real chickens on the range yesterday. City boys don't know one end of a gun from another. Haven't they even been to a fair?_

_You wouldn't believe who showed up yesterday with the new recruits. Kenny Laylor. Remember him from high-school? He's married now, to Debby. Dot's sister. He said Dot's living in California now, trying to make it as an actress. What do you know about that?_

_I'm holed up in my bunk, rain's just pouring out there. Thank God I'm not on ground patrol today, the real upshot of the whole promotion! But it doesn't keep me out of everything. Did I tell you the stove exploded last week, when I was on KP? I can tell you that my sleeve caught fire, but only took the hair off my arm. Nothing serious, except we had to go without hot meals for three days, until it got replaced. Sure miss waking up to your omelets and sausage in the mornings, and Mother's Sunday suppers._

_You've sent me so many sketches of the family and everyone that I have to store them in a box. A lot of fellows want to know who all the good looking dames are. They also ask who the artist is. I say, 'My old pal, the famous Steve Rogers.' They say, 'Who?' I say, 'the toughest guy in New York, and he can draw like that.'_

_Miss you, pal. Don't do anything stupid. And don't work too hard. Keep studying. Take care of yourself, and let Mother take care of you too. Hopefully they'll let me have a leave for Christmas, so I'm going to say, See you then._

_Write again soon._

_Love, Buck_

He let his head fall back against the couch, tucked his feet closer under him, all tension drained from his body. He could see Bucky grinning, gesturing with one hand, quirking his eyebrows as he talked. Like he was right there in the room with Steve.

Steve twisted round to sit against the other arm of the couch, propping his sketchbook on his knees. He grabbed one of his pencils, flipped to a blank page, started to write.

_Dear Buck,_

_Not much going on here, except JB's already making talking noises. He might turn out to be as smart and good-looking as you. Hopefully less of a jerk to any siblings he'll get. _

Steve paused and glanced up at the photo Becca had sent. He smiled again, then put down his pencil and leaned forward to pick it up. Then he was sketching, quickly, hunched over the paper, glancing back and forth from the photo. He wanted Buck to remember this one too.

**Author's notes:**

**So, I really hope I gave a clear picture of Steve's thoughts about the war.**  
**Most of this history, you probably know, but I was startled by a little headline in the December 8, 1941 _Times_: ENTIRE CITY PUT ON WAR FOOTING; All Japanese Are Ordered to Stay in Homes—Extra Guards Placed on Vital Services. Somehow I had not pictured the treatment of the Japanese to be as bad away from the West Coast. But that night the FBI rounded up and jailed hundreds-of-thousands of Japanese men in New York alone. I might be Canadian, but I'm no prouder of my own country's treatment of people who had chosen a new home. Hundreds of men of Japanese heritage signed up for the military, in Canada and the US, and many of their units proved themselves over and over again. I know Steve's story focuses on the European theatre, but I really wanted to point out a few of these other dimensions.**  
**If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask! **

**The fanart that inspired Steve's sketch at the end there can be found in my Ao3 work 'Just Kids'.**


	17. Chapter 17

**The End of the Beginning**

June 14, 1943

Steve walked toward the Army pavilion, almost without thinking. Buck might have tried to distract him, but all he could do was look at Buck in his uniform and think, _That should be me, too._

All the men who _had_ fought, all the men who _were_ fighting, all the men who _would_ fight, men like his father. His father had given everything, sacrificing his life for his country. How could his son do any less? And it wasn't like Steve had any reason to stay. Bucky was his family, and Bucky was going.

Why did they have to have such a problem with his size? He'd always fought fellows bigger than him, just like the guy in the alley earlier in the day. All he wanted was a chance. Like Mr. Yamamoto. Just a chance to show what he could do.

Someone shoved Steve from behind and he turned, startled.

"Come on, you're kinda missing the point of a double date." Bucky half-frowned at him. "We're taking the girls _dancing._"

"You go ahead," Steve answered. "I'll catch up with you." Besides, he and Connie should have some time to themselves.

Bucky glanced down at him, catching the determination in his voice. "You really gonna do this again?"

Steve shrugged, jammed his hands in his pockets. "Well, it's a fair. I'm gonna try my luck."

"As who, Steve from Ohio?" Bucky's voice went sharp. "They'll catch you, or worse: they'll actually take you."

There was a hint of fear mixed with the frustration, and Steve glanced at the floor. "Look, I know you don't think I can do this, but–"

"This isn't a back alley, Steve," Buck interrupted. "It's a _war._"

"I know it's a war," Steve started, but Bucky wasn't done.

"Why are you so keen to fight? There are so many important jobs–"

"And what am I gonna do?" Steve shot back. "Collect scraps in my little red wagon?"

"Yes!" Bucky threw up one hand in frustration.

"I'm not gonna sit in a factory, Bucky."

"I don't–"

"Bucky, come on." There was that unyielding steel in Steve's voice now, and Buck heard it. "There are men laying down their lives. I've got no right to do any less than them. That's what you don't understand: this isn't about me."

Bucky stared at him, hurt washing away the anger. "Right. 'cause you got nothing to prove."

Steve felt a stab of guilt. He knew what Bucky meant. All those years his friend, his _brother,_ had spent rescuing him. And now, in the biggest fight of all, Steve wouldn't let him.

"Hey, Sarge!" Connie's voice rang across the fairground, breaking the moment. "Are we going dancing?"

"Yes, we are," Bucky called back, trying to sound cheerful. He turned back to Steve, the faintest of smiles on his lips. A heaviness settled on them, as he started to back away, shaking his head. "Don't do anything stupid 'til I get back." Ever the scolding big brother.

A smile tugged at the corners of Steve's mouth. "How can I?" he called after him. "You're taking all the stupid with you."

Bucky stopped, still facing Steve, and then he really smiled—not big, but it reached his eyes—and came back. "You're a punk," he muttered, grabbing Steve in a tight hug.

"Jerk." As he pulled away, Steve added softly, "Be careful."

Bucky nodded—and there was that little smirk, back in place. Steve swallowed hard as he watched him go. His ship would pull out before Steve was even awake. Only God knew when he'd see him again. Sooner, rather than later, God help him.

"Don't win the war until I get there," he called.

Bucky halted, swung round, and snapped off a salute—_Yes, sir!_—as if Steve somehow outranked him. Then he was hurrying down the steps of the pavilion to grab Connie's hand. "Come on, girls," Steve heard him say. "They're playing our song."

And then he was gone.

* * *

_"I just need one name, Sargent James Barnes from the 107__th__."_

_…_

_"Bucky… It's me. It's Steve…"_

_"Steve!"_

_"I thought you were dead."_

_"I thought you were smaller." _

_…_

_"Just go! Get outta here!"_

_"No, not without you!"_

_…_

_"You ready to follow 'Captain America' into the jaws of death?"_

_"Hell, no. The little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight; I'm following him."_

_…_

_"Bucky! Grab my hand! ... NO‼"_


	18. Chapter 18

**Epilogue**

A.K.A. To Infinity and Beyond

1:16 AM, June 4, 2017

_Somewhere over the Indian Ocean_

Steve jerks awake, his breath coming fast, Bucky's scream ringing in his ears. It's been awhile since that memory was part of his nightly routine.

With a shake of his head, he re-orients himself. He is in the Quinjet, on his way to Wakanda… to see Bucky. Relaxing, he settles back in the pilot's seat, checks the map. Another hour. Thank God for autopilot.

He is still tired, maybe from all the memories; he has never let himself go back that way. He gets up to fetch his phone.

No texts from Sam or the others. That's fine.

He brings up his pictures, finds one in particular. Setting his phone on the dash, he stares at it until the screen goes dark. But he can still see it.

Shuri took it a couple days after Buck got out of cryo. Sitting on a bench in one of the outdoor markets, Bucky's arm across Steve's shoulders, grinning and hamming for the camera. Steve, a Coke in one hand, his other arm slung around Buck's neck; except for his hand, behind Bucky's head, two fingers raised.

Steve closes his eyes again, holding on to the image.

_"Bucky?"_

_"Who the hell is Bucky?"_

_…_

_"Even when I had nothing I had Bucky."_

_…_

_"Please don't make me do this… You know me."_

_"No I don't!"_

_"I'm not gonna fight you. You're my friend."_

_"And you're my mission. YOU'RE. MY. MISSION."_

_"Then finish it. 'cause I'm with you to the end of the line."_

The end of the line… end of the line… end of the line… line… line… line…

* * *

Steve cracks his eyes open, squinting at a dark, but definitely unfamiliar, sky. He can hear the soft _swish_ of water against shore, the warble of a jungle bird, and something that sounds almost like… a bullfrog?

He sits up with a jerk, teetering on the edge before he catches himself. Woah. Okay. He is on a wooden dock, just like Maine, except… this is Wakanda.

He catches his breath, finds a fuzzy recollection of being instructed to land on the outskirts of the city, being escorted to a hut in the middle of the night, and at some point wandering down to the river. _Looking for Bucky…_ He grips the edge of the boards with a sigh and lets his feet dangle in the water again. Bucky must be nearby; no one else would build a dock like this.

The sky is almost grey in the east now, a couple stars wink out. Behind him the land settles, the animals begin to hush. He breathes deep, the dreamy peace settling in his bones, reaching his soul.

The dock creaks and Steve catches the whisper of bare feet on wood. He goes quite still, waiting.

"Steve? Remember when-?" Bucky breaks off, laughing softly. "Ya know, it's so funny what I remember now. I remember your face when you ate your first strawberry at the cousins' farm. I remember my parents yelling at each other that Christmas when the boiler blew. I remember the smell of your mom's coffee when I'd sit on the front steps Saturday mornings. I remember a guy we called Muse—'cause he was such a serious fella—with two or three bullets in his hip and another in his lung, taking out a big gun that had us pinned–" He stops and Steve knows how that memory ends. "I remember you laughing 'til you choked over– what was his name? Cheat? Chet? Chet! In the Hardy Boys books."

Steve can hardly breathe now, the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

"Hey. Steve."

He turns, sees a hand stretched out to him, looks past it and up. Navy sweatpants, a plain grey t-shirt, dark hair down to his shoulders now, thick stubble coating his chin, dark eyes deep with dark memories, but with that spark of mischief… Bucky, smiling.

And one arm…

Something inside Steve shatters; something he didn't even know was there. Something he thought he'd faced up to years ago.

The smile disappears, and there is a furrow between Buck's brows now. For some reason, a fresh onslaught of memories hits.

The knife.

Fighting.

His best friend punching him in the face.

Not caring whether he lived or died, if Bucky would just _say his name._

The look in the Soldier—_Bucky's_—eyes when Steve said those words: "_'cause I'm with you to the end of the line."_

The pain is swift and sharp, catching him somewhere between the past and the present, everything twisting and blurring in a kaleidoscope of hopes and heartache.

_"Steve."_ Bucky's voice is chiding, as if he'd called once or twice already. "Grab my freakin' hand."

Steve shifts his weight, starts to put out his hand. He sees suddenly the space between their fingers, and reaches, snatching at Bucky's hand, clinging as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

The hand is warm and solid, Bucky hauling him to his feet with ease, as always. Steve stumbles, a drowning man, dragged from the deep.

"Steve." The voice is as gentle and hesitant as the grip is strong and determined. "It's okay. I'm here. Just breathe, pal. Come on. Just breathe."

Steve takes one breath and then another, looks full into that face he knows better than his own. The truth of _now_ is settling around him, but he still teeters on the cliff's edge.

"Stop looking like you're seeing ghosts," Bucky says, his one hand on Steve's shoulder now. "I promised, old man. To the end of the line."

_To the end of the line…_

"Stevie," Bucky says, then stops. All Steve sees are his eyes going soft and gentle. Without another word, he wraps his arm around his Steve's shoulders, pulls him in against his chest, holds him tight.

Steve's hands come up to press against Buck's back, before clenching fistfuls of his shirt, and the tears begin to fall. Slowly at first, like the first raindrops announce a summer thunder shower, before the storm breaks.

He is weeping now, a torrent tearing from inside him, and he is lost, helpless against it. But Bucky stands in the teeth of the wind, holds him close, an anchor and a shelter.

"Bucky!" he gasps, "Buck–"

The whisper in his ear, "It's okay, Stevie. I'm here."

It is as if, all in the same moment, they are standing outside his apartment in Brooklyn, they are standing in a forest in Austria, and they are standing on a dock in Wakanda. And he doesn't know how much more he can take. Because it _hurts_. Getting his heart broken, putting some of it back together, getting it shattered again, trying to figure out what pieces are gone and what's new and how the heck this will ever turn out right… It hurts. All of it.

Though talking with Sam more often, especially in the last six months, has helped, Steve still knows—deep down in that place that has no words—that only Bucky can make it work. Because he's the only one who _knows_. Who knows what it's like, knows what happened. Who's _been there._

Because, even if he doesn't remember all the facts, Bucky remembers the feelings. When he needed Steve, Steve was there, and when Steve needed Bucky, Bucky was there. They promised each other, _to the end of the line_.

And here they are, together, the end out of sight once more.

"Buck–" he sobs.

"I'm here, Stevie. I'm here."

Bucky.

_This_ is Bucky. His friend, his brother, his protector. Whatever he may have done, wherever the memories may have scattered to, whatever he might say about himself, Bucky is here.

With him.

_Holding_ him.

"Buck-y," he manages.

"S'okay, Stevie. S'okay."

Gradually, the downpour lessens, but not until the sobs have been reduced to uneven breaths, does Steve feel Bucky shift his position. His elbow stays firm against Steve's shoulder, but his hand comes up to rest on the back of Steve's head.

He buries his face against Buck's neck, catching the scent of something earthy and dry, but good, mixed with soap and sweat. He finds that he can breathe, deep, once, twice. He realizes that the shoulder of Bucky's shirt is soaked with tears and snot, and he manages to croak, "Sorry." But he isn't, that isn't what he meant and Bucky knows it.

"You're welcome," Bucky whispers.

They stand, breathing in time.

* * *

They sit on the dock, shoulders brushing, feet dangling in the water, silent. Steve slumps against Bucky and Bucky's arm is draped around his neck. For a while he is still sniffling, and he wipes his sleeve across his nose…

His mother's voice: _'Always, _always _keep a clean hankie with you, laddie. You never know when you might need it.'_

More tears. But these are easier, almost soothing. Bucky does not ask, but Steve feels obligated to say _something_ so he whispers, "Mother."

Bucky's arm cinches just a little bit tighter around him, and he rests his cheek on top of Steve's head. They could be perched on the fire escape outside their apartment, or on the seawall at Gravesend, or on their favorite tree branch in Prospect Park, the one on the edge of the lake, right near the boathouse, where they could spy on people and giggle and snack on apples they had stuffed in their pockets, until the grown-ups came hunting for them.

The words are on the tip of Steve's tongue, _Do you remember…?_ before he catches them. He doesn't want to risk that pain in Bucky's eyes, when he wants so badly to remember and make Steve happy, but can't.

Steve takes in a long slow breath, tries to remember what Bucky had said, before Steve lost it. "So… do you remember a lot?"

Bucky shifts, sitting straighter, not quite tense, but nervous. The words come slower than they did back then. "Bits and pieces. But always more. Some things are gone for good. Some aren't. It doesn't feel like enough. It probably never will. But I just take what I can get, and… be grateful, I guess. I mean, if I stop to think, this is all… way more than I ever hoped for." He draws a long breath. "I'm free now, and wherever things go from here, well, I just want– I mean, you–"

Now it is Steve's turn to react, once the words sink in. He pulls away, sitting up to look Bucky in the eyes. "Free? You mean… they did it? They're done? Shuri… the words…" He is fumbling.

Bucky opens his mouth. _"Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtstat'. Rassvet. Pech'. Devyat'. Dobrokachestvennyy. Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin. Gruzovoy vagon."_

There is a moment's breathless silence.

Steve's mind whirls, stunned. "What-?"

_"Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy," _Bucky starts again, but his breathing is uneven, fast, and he has to stop. He makes a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "I did it! Steve, I-I-I-"

He is stuttering, almost hyperventilating, and Steve comes to his senses. He grabs Buck's shoulder. "Breathe, Buck. Just breathe."

"I- am- breathing," Buck gasps. "Punk!" He throws his arm around Steve's neck, and Steve is laughing and Bucky is laughing, and maybe they are crying. Steve has a dim sense of some great weight or shadow melting away, but the joy of this moment is overwhelming; he can't think beyond _now_, and he doesn't want to.

Then Bucky is telling how it's been two weeks since Princess Shuri just walked into his apartment one morning and rattled off The Words in perfect Russian, and it had taken Buck a couple minutes to realize what the heck had just happened.

Again there is laughter, again there are tears, but it's quieter now, the reality settling in.

At some point Steve notices the stars are gone. Clear sky, morning mist on the water: it should be a beautiful day. Though it will be a little while longer before the sun tops the mountains to reach them. Bucky seems to notice at the same moment and they sit in silence, taking it in.

"Remember?" Bucky says, suddenly. "When we went to the cottage in Maine after your mom died?"

Steve starts in surprise. His thoughts scramble to catch where Bucky's going, but he comes up blank. Until…

"And we had that motorboat. What was it called? The _Brother_-something?"

"The _Brotherhood_."

"Right! And–" Buck stops suddenly, laughing.

"And what?" Steve is smiling too, trying to imagine…

"You don't remember?" Bucky raises his eyebrows.

"I have a brain, not a computer."

Bucky's grin gets bigger. "Okay then. Never mind."

"Aha. Must have been embarrassing then. Did it involve a girl?"

Bucky ducks his head.

"Come on. Tell me!"

"Nah. I like knowing something Captain America doesn't."

Steve grabs his friend, putting him in headlock, which he is laughing too hard to get out of. A troop of monkeys goes screeching and leaping back into the woods.

They wrestle until Bucky almost falls in the water, and Steve catches both of them.

"Punk!" Bucky gasps.

"Jerk," is Steve's reply.

They fall silent again, and a contented peace settles over them.

They are here.

That is all that matters.

The sun is peeping over the mountains, when Bucky gives a perceptible start. "Hey. Happy Birthday, big 99."

"What about you, Mister Century?" Steve teases huskily.

"D'you ever think…?" Bucky stops, scratches his chin through the stubble, stares out over the river, not looking at Steve. "D'you ever wonder if–?"

"No, I never ask 'what if'," Steve tries to interrupt.

"If it's worth it?" Bucky finishes. "To still be here? To still be… alive?"

Steve gives a quiet snort. "You're worth it."

Bucky's head goes down, and he covers his face with his hand. Steve's arm circles his shoulders, pulling him in against his side. Finally he looks up, tears clinging to his lashes. "You did catch me, Steve." He sniffs, rubs the back of his hand across his nose. "You know that, don't you?"

Steve stiffens, his arm sliding off Bucky's back.

"When I fell, you caught me. Stevie, you never even let me go."

And now Steve is the one with his head in his hands, and Bucky's arm is around _his_ shoulders, and they hold on to each other. Old wounds healing.

* * *

A fight between two birds breaks out in a nearby tree and they stir, slowly getting to their feet.

A new day has come.

Still without speaking they walk back to land, and Steve stops. He turns, looks back down the length of the dock.

Bucky turns too, gives him a quizzical look. "What's eating you?"

Steve smiles. "How about we wake everybody up at once?"

Bucky's eyes go wide and he laughs; he knows, he gets it. Then he looks nervous. "I dragged you out, you dragged me out. I think we're even." But he is rolling up his pant legs one-handed, much quicker than Steve would have thought possible.

In that simple action Steve knows something: this isn't 1927. It isn't 1940. But that's okay. They're okay. Because sometimes time makes friends stronger.

"Go!" Steve shouts. They are off, running pell-mell, the dock shuddering under their weight. A moment of laughing competition, before there is one step left.

Bucky's hand closes around his.

Then they launch into freefall, and in that moment before they hit the water, Bucky's yell changes to a startled gasp, as he remembers—too late—that he has no left hand with which to grab his nose.

* * *

_...weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning._

_–Psalm 30:5b_

_..._

_And when you call, and need me near,_  
_Saying, 'Where'd you go?'_  
_Brother, I'm right here._  
_And on those days when the sky begins to fall_  
_You're the blood of my blood_  
_We can get through it all_

_…_

_Brother, let me be your shelter_  
_Never leave you all alone_  
_I can be the one you call_  
_When you're feelin' low_  
_Brother, let me be your fortress_  
_When the night winds are driving on_  
_Be the one to light the way_  
_Bring you home_

_–'Brother' by NEEDTOBREATHE_

**Author's notes:**

**So, yeah, I totally believe Shuri would do something like that. She's so confident in her own abilities, and such a strong believer in Buck's humanity that she would totally spring the final big test on him. And then of course, give him a hug and help him calm down after. I think she's so awesome and I have really enjoyed writing her in my sequel This Is Me, which is basically Steve and Buck hanging out in Wakanda, but mostly from Buck's POV. **

**Galloping grasshoppers! I cannot believe how this project has revitalized my writing. Or how many people have actually taken the time to read it. Thanks a million, every one. If you have time to leave a comment, feedback is also massively appreciated. **

**I will always draw inspiration from fellow writers who are much better than me, so thanks especially to caristiona7 and Griselda Banks. Passing the torch. :)**

**I loved doing this, and I hope you loved reading it, and no matter what happens in Avengers 4, no matter who lives or dies, Steve and Buck will remain brothers, best friends, to the end of the line, and beyond.**


End file.
